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Spencer Tellerman


Somatic OCD and the Fear of Forever

I can recall the events leading up to that night so vividly, which says a lot because I can hardly remember what I had eaten for dinner last night. It was early February of 2006; the school week before mid-winter break had concluded. Yes, selective high schools in the Bay Area dedicated a whole week off to leisurely skiing with family in Tahoe. Marin County, being one of the wealthiest in the country, was definitely no exception to this. I’m from Novato, the farthest northern city in Marin, labeled the “poorest” by the general consensus. My idea of a fun filled getaway carving in and out of freshly fallen powdered snow, lounging around a fire listening to ambient music came in the form of a small zip lock dime bag. Inside the dime bag was the most crystal-dusted marijuana I had ever seen, and even to this day. On the back of the bag was a skull pattern on a black backdrop; something that I realize now was a sign that eerily foreshadowed how the night was about to play out. My friend Joey had bought this stuff off a guy we nicknamed Crabgrass. The week prior, Crabgrass sold us weed that did absolutely nothing to our young blossoming minds. Rightfully annoyed by this, we argued for either a refund or replacement. There was hardly any trust established between the slimy kid dealer and us, and so what we were getting could have possibly been laced; a nefarious joke played on two naïve boys looking to get high the first night of vacation.

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