It is 10:30 p.m. on a Sunday, and I am pointing the blue flame of a propane torch at a little glass piece fixed to the end of a water pipe. It takes about a minute for the glass nail to start to glow red-hot. That’s when I turn the torch off and start my timer. After about 40 seconds, the red glow has faded and I drop a piece of hash about the size of a grain of rice onto the nail. I breathe in as the hash vaporizes and get a hit that pops with fruitiness and the epitome of fresh green flavor.
And with that airy, light hit, all the stress from my weekend job fades away as I sink into my couch.
Mentioning dabbing in the company of adults, even the pot-friendly twentysomethings I spend most of my time with, evokes laughs and mocking scorn: “Isn’t that like the moonshine of weed?” “Why do you need to get THAT high?” “What’s next, you’re going drill a hole in your skull and get high through a cranial IV of THC?”
