Late.
Way late.
The kind of late where you pull in and the party’s already humming, music thumping, crowd buzzing like a hive that’s been feeding on terpenes.
I killed the engine. Cracked the door. Stepped out.
WHAM.
A wall of weed air slapped me like a friendly heavyweight. Thick. Heavy. Sweet and skunky. I froze with one shoe still in the car, wondering: Is that them? Or me? The line was blurry. I sniffed my sleeve — no help. Might’ve been both.
The whole scene looked like someone turned Woodstock into a pop-up shop. Laughter cut through the bass, and above it all, the smoke hung like a low ceiling you could almost touch.
We — the tribe of Dabbin-Dad — were already at work. Battery charged. Rigs ready. Handing out free dabs like it was a public service. Which, technically, it is. People lined up, faces glowing in the LED lights, waiting for that molten-gold moment where concentrate meets quartz and the whole day changes.
Hits were taken. Coughs erupted. Smiles bloomed like fireworks in slow motion. Every exhale added another layer to the sky.
Time stopped having numbers. The only measure was cloud density.
And when I left — hours later, lungs full, grin wide — I smelled exactly the same as when I got there.
Still no idea if it was them or me.
Didn’t matter.
We were all breathing the same air.
Keep it weird,
~-JohnsJoints
PS
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