May 1, 2020
It was the hot dab that did me in.
Thank you, my airheaded, rookie administrator, for enlightening me to what the inside of a barrel of a flame thrower is like when delivering a mechanical dragon’s demonstration of unbridled fury.
And just when I managed to inhale something that resembled actual air, the entire experience was deepened upon identifying the sensation of having swallowed a sleeping porcupine into my lungs who, upon awakening in the cramped space, was overcome with fear causing it to instinctually employ its quills in order to defend itself.
Suddenly, I was the porcupine, anxiety ridden from the torturous enclosure of a war prisoner’s hurt locker, teetering on the brink of panic, gauging whether the extreme discomfort would cause claustrophobic madness before having the luxury of first offing myself.
And then came the bong spins. At least that’s what they used to call it long before concentrates with 110% THC existed. So out of the place I fled, incapable of explaining myself not only because of the inability to formulate and convey a cohesive word, but also for the complete lack of oxygen flowing through my gills.
The night had instantly taken a Fear and Loathing turn, forcing the retreat from the madness into the safety of the car where a judge from Pink Floyd’s The Wall hammered down his gavel for the crime of a meaningless existence. That’s when the dizziness proved a harsh catalyst, churning the stomach into a pressurized brew of witch’s stew, conjuring the recently eaten food truck kung pao calamari to projectile launch onto the misty pavement in the back alley.
This was the worst Cannabis experience of my life.
Thank goodness for cool dabs.
And the cool mother fuckers who know how to heat a dab.
But if you don’t, that’s ok. That’s why the good lord gave us the vape cart.