Tiffany Greysen, contributor
Once upon a time, in a land called Arcata, California, an exceptionally lovely, smart, funny mother of two took the word “dabs” and incorrectly assumed that it related to the traditional meaning of the word:
- A small amount of something.
“She licked a dab of chocolate from her finger”
Synonyms: Drop, spot, smear, splash, speck, taste, trace, touch, hint, bit.
While she was fully aware that “dabs” had something to do with the pot, she thought, “Hey, I have a low tolerance for THC-induced paranoia and panic, and fear being alone in jail while my children wait for me at the door.” A “dab” sounds like it would be the perfect size; it wouldn’t be too big nor too small. Another person that is not in “the lifestyle” might also make the same assumption that “dabs” are a mere touch of the devil’s lettuce. Our heroine, being one of those people, did not suspect that something with the name “dabs” could ever hurt her, and so she didn’t know the monster she was about to encounter. The monster that by all rights should be called something like “Sticky Chunk of Death,” or “Caramelized Syrup of Ipecac,” or maybe “Tonight’s the Night You Gonna Die Nugget.”
While completely unaware of the mistakes she was about to make, she could not deny that there were some red flags, but red flags are for the weak, and like all warriors, she powered-on. *cue Dido.* She realized she was in way over her head when the butane torch came out, but again, what could go wrong? It’s just a dab… a baby-sized amount of pot.
The effects kicked in only moments after the long, slow, full-lung inhale. It was about then that she internally acknowledged she was a “good amount” of high, and if she could stay just that high, everything would be okay. However, it continued to come in waves; each level of highness was multiplying at an unfortunate speed. The voices had started to become singled-out, and everything sounded hollow. Any eye contact seemed to be too much eye contact, and the normal conversations taking place around her could no longer be understood. This is when she knew she had a job to do, and that job was to respectfully sneak off and die peacefully like a cat that had been hit by a car. So she excused herself as discreetly as one can while having to have two friends carry her because her legs no longer remembered how to walk. I won’t go into too many details regarding the throwing-up that followed in this 100% fictional story that happened last year at The Savage Henry Independent Times Comedy Fest, but I can tell you that she will never do dabs again and she has since lived happily ever after, just sticking to cocaine and Adderall. Special thanks to AB, HK, PTP, SM, & IV.