#62 - Check Your Temperature

<p>It was the hot dab that did me in.</p> <p>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.</p> <p>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.</p> <p>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.</p> <p>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.</p> <p>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.</p> <p>This was the worst Cannabis experience of my life.</p> <p>Thank goodness for cool dabs.</p> <p>And the cool mother fuckers who know how to heat a dab.</p> <p>But if you don’t, that’s ok. That’s why the good lord gave us the vape cart.</p>