ForEverAfter
Ex-Bluelighter
- Joined
- Jan 16, 2012
- Messages
- 2,836
Tuesday, 29th May 2012
4:28
4 caps, containing roughly 1.85 grams dried mushrooms.
5:41
I have tonight to submit a major assignment. Third year university. I’ve done a fair bit of work on it. It’s a creative folio, so it doesn’t have to meet really particular guidelines, but still it’s freaking me out. I’m fairly drunk and stoned, and I’m coming up on a light-medium dose of mushroms. I need to get some more bud, too. I’m waiting on a guy. Should arrive in my neighbourhood in about an hour and a half. Maybe less. It’s hard to say. In the meantime I’ve been smoking cigarettes and joints. There’s a big joint left. Maybe half a gram. I want to smoke it, because fuck it there’s more coming, but I can’t let myself. I need to stay awake; I need to stay up all night; I need to submit something tomorrow morning. So I go lie down on the couch. The first batch of Muscaria are almost dry. Forty hours now. They’re still a bit rubbery, some of the pieces. The second batch is rubbery as hell. It will take another day. I wake up and go meet up with my friend to get some weed. When I get back, I feel okay. I feel ready to trip. I roll up the half gram remaining from the last bag into a joint.
7:30
I haven’t had a bath or a shower for a couple of days. I’ve been wearing my hat instead of washing my hair, it’s greasy as fuck. Basically, I’ve been acting like a complete dropkick alcoholic again. Barely functioning, dragging myself along shamelessly. The alcohol is gradually drifting from an almost Imperceptably slight hangover to a warm afterglow. I feel good. I close my eyes and relax my muscles for the first time in days. I am retaining so much stress. Last week of university. Trying to maintain basically flawless results. While working full time and drinking and taking a lot of drugs. Over the next week and a half pretty much everything is due in. I’m so fucking tired. And I have so much work to do. I find it difficult to relax. My muscles are constricting. The water isn’t hot enough. I pump in some hot water and burn my toes. I am about to get out when I notice the joint and the lighter that I forgot about earlier. I dry my hands on a towel and smoke. I hold the joint between my lips and lower myself under the water so that only the middle of my face is submerged. An oval alien face, smoking blankly. Smoking underwater feels really nice. You literally float up to the surface and get “higher” when you inhale. I hold it in my lungs, and float on the surface of the water for a couple of minutes. I keep my breath held until I start to go dizzy.
9:03
The mushrooms are still in the evaporator. The first batch is almost definitely done.
11:33
I have to stop drinking alcohol and smoking cigarettes. I keep telling myself I have to stop. But then the next day I keep going. I need to make a decision. After midnight tonight, I will have no alcohol or tobacco for a year.
11:35
inspiration hasn’t hit me yet. So I take six gel caps, containing roughly 2.95 grams dried mushrooms and roll one last joint. I am thinking too much about writing rather than just writing. I need to eat some weed. Get really stoned until I’m not thinking about anything.
11.50
I light the joint and play “Let it Be.”
Wednesday, 30th May
The poems are done, but they’re totally fucked up. About drugs, depravity and delerium. I figure it’s better if I’m on drugs when I read them out in class. The shame of publically labeling myself a drug addict, more or less, would be less if I didn’t feel any shame. Vaporizing weed’s not going to be enough. I need to eat weed and have some DXM. So I go down to the shops to get some cough syrup and crackers. The local pharmacy doesn’t even put the DXM syrup behind the counter. It’s on the shelf. You could grab like four of them at the same time. I should have. I don’t like buying DXM like this. It’s undiginfied. At least with a dealer there’s no bullshit. It’s drugs for cash. The girl at the counter doesn’t ask me anything. Which is weird because I’m very stoned and I look like shit.
I get home and quickly make some firecrackers with my evaporated weed. Over three grams of evaporated weed for one dose. I crumble it between my fingers into a bowl with a couple of big scoops of nutella and mix it together. Wrap it with alfoil and chuck it in the oven. I vaporize more weed while it’s cooking. Then I eat the firecrackers, and head off to the library. I remember the DXM. That bottle of cough syrup in the fridge. I need it to function. I’m no good at public speaking. Reading fucked up poems out loud to a roomful of university students isn’t my idea of fun. I get nervous. My voice shakes. I always want to run out of the room. Stories I can read out okay. Not poems. So I run back inside and drink down about half the bottle of cough syrup. Maybe a bit less. Something like 275-300 mg DXM Hbi. I don’t think I’ve ever consumed DXM then gone into a class, but it seemed like a good idea.
The weed and the DXM kicked in hard just before it was my turn to read. I was still a bit too anxious for the first poem. The second one, I read just as I had intended. Fast flat and monotonous. It went down really well.
Wednesday, 6th June 2012
I wake up like I’ve never gone to sleep. I’m on the couch. I don’t remember getting there. I feel weird. I don’t have a hangover. The last thing I remember is buying some ecstasy of this guy at the university pub. I was drunk. Really really drunk. Wine and beer and whiskey tends to do that to you. I vaguel remember chewing on an ecstasy pill. Thinking this isn’t working. There is a beer glass from the pub sitting by my computer. I remember taking it from the pub. It is half full. I can’t believe I bought fake ecstasy. Surely, if it was real, I wouldn’t have passed out. I check the baggie thinking maybe I didn’t take it after all. But, sure enough, there are three there instead of four.. Serves me right for buying pills on campus. It takes me a while to find the bag. Three leaf clovers. Blue. Maybe I was just so drunk that it had no effect. If that’s possible. I don’t know. I don’t usually take ectasy.
1:45 am
I crush up half a pill. There is a stack of light blue powder on the table. I roll up a receipt and snort it down. The powder burns the inside of my nose. My face is stinging. My eyes start watering immediately. It burns like speed. There is an effect. I feel wired. I keep snorting, and the burning sensation continues to build up. I pinch my nose, pressing the insides of the nostrils together. The drugs continue to burn. The effect increases. After fifteen minutes my nose is badly blocked. I try to pull it through into the back of my throat. My nose is too badly blocked.
2:23 am
I blow my nose. The drugs have already been absorbed. I am fucked off my head. But the hangover or whatever is numbing the sensation. The ecstasy is lingering somewhere behing my consciousness. It’s floating behind my head. I swallow the other half pill. I’ve never like snorting drugs. It’s the worst method of consumption. I’d rather IV, but that’s not really a possibility with MDMA. Assuming this is MDMA, of which I am yet to be convinced.
2:34 am
I feel really weird. I need to eat something. Maybe that’s it. I hardly ate anything yesterday. Alcohol and weed and shrooms and DXM and ecstasy. That’s pretty much all I had. In fact, I don’t think I had anything to eat at all. Just drugs. I want to eat a T-bone steak but I can’t be bothered cooking it. I feel really weird. The sensation, whatever it is, is increasing. I feel happy. I think that’s what it is. Simple happiness. I don’re recognize it, because it’s been so long since I’ve experienced joy, artificially or otherwise. That’s why ecstasy always feels so strange to me. It’s not strange to chemically induce happiness, assuming you experience it naturally. Ecstasy depresses me because it makes me realize how unhappy I am without it. When people without anxiety disorders take xanax they get stoned. Anxious people take it because they are anxious; tather than being stoned, they experience life without the usualy accompanying stress. Similarly, ectasy is an anti-depressant for the depressed and a drug for the happy. It’s been so long since I’ve been happy.
I read a poem out in class a couple of days ago, which received some applause. But, I never know if it’s pity or not. I think it’s the best thing I’ve ever written. But, everything I write may be shit. I don’t know. People don’t tell you what they think if it’s likely to upset you. Doesn’t matter if your work is good or bad. They always say good. Nobody tells you that you’re talentless. So I read this poem out, on DXM, and tried not to think about whether or not it was well received.
The next day, I duck into the pub before class to get a beer and smoke a joint. This guy smells the weed and comes up to me, offering me a variety of drugs. I take his phone number for later. My fiction teacher invites me to read out the poem again, this time to a third year class. I am the only student he knows by name. He invites me out for drinks. Buys me wine and beer. The dealer is still there. I scam cigarettes of him, while getting drunk with my teacher. This is the closest I’ve come to happiness, naturally, in a long time. It’s one of the few times that my talent has been verified.
3:03 am
Hatred is my motivator. I use negative emotions to inspire my writing. I study hard because I’m trying to get away from my miserable past, rather than trying to pursue a happy future. Artificially removing unhappiness also removes my motivation towards success. Though, maybe it’s possible to use happiness as a motivation. I don’t think it’s as powerful a driving force as misery. As a general rule: when people have something to prove, they do so.
If nobody ever told me I could write, I would keep improving endlessly. There has to be a point where a writer decides that they are good enough. Then, without the driving force, they start to regress. People reach their peak. They mark a point on their journey as the end.
3:17 am
I really don’t like ecstasy. I feel bad. Then maybe I don’t feel bad. I always get stuck in these thought loops. Maybe I feel good. Maybe I don’t like being happy. What a miserable thought. Maybe I do like being happy, but I don’t allow myself to be. Even more miserable. Ecstasy makes happy people happier. It forces the miserable to confront happiness, for better or worse. I don’t like seeing happy people. My life would be a lot better if I was surrounded by misery. When I see happy couples, kissing each other in public, I get angry. Because they have what I don’t. They remind me of a time in my life when I was happy; so, too, does ecstasy.
I take one of the basa fillets out of the grill and unwrap the foil. It looks odd. Maybe undercooked slightly. It’s hard to tell because I don’t usually cook basa like this. It has a transperancy to it. My cats are going crazy in the kitchen. The smell of fish driving them mad.
I sit back down at the computer and they jump all over me, clining to my legs, trying to get to the fish. It’s a frenzy. In my MDMA state, I am less inclined to tell them off. And they can tell. My body language is open. So they jump up on my legs and paw at the fish. I get angry with them. I yell. Then, I feel bad for yelling. I dig into the fish with my fingers. It’s slimy and slightly chewy. I take a handful for my cat. He slashes at my hand with his claw, causing me to drop the fish. He purrs loudly as he eats. I distribute bits of fillet to the other cats.
There are no thoughts in my head. I start thinking about this.
My cat, the king, leaps up onto my lap and digs his claws into my leg, grabbing a piece of fish intended for my mouth. It is the cheekiest thing he has ever done. I don’t think he would have done it if I wasn’t on MDMA. This drug makes me soft.
3:35 am
I finish the fillet. Feel a bit better now. The pill is kicking in. I don’t like the effect of the drug, though. I feel good, physically. But I feel nothing, emotionally. Happiness is not the opposite of sadness. It is the absence of sadness. Ignorance is bliss. Feeling nothing is happiness. Because it is such a relief to not feel. The problem is, I feel bad about not feeling. I think about having no thoughts. I keep trying to break the silence in my head, but it keeps creeping back in.
3:43 am
I’ve never had an interesting conversation with anyone on ecstasy. I feel completely uninspired. This drug makes me dull. Dull and happy. I grab the other basa out of the grill and unwrap it. The cats are still swarming around me, meowing. I have to be careful not to let them steal some of my fish.
I would later find out that the pills contained low doses of MDMA and DXM, a potentially lethal chemical cocktail. Especially when combined with alcohol.
Saturday, 2nd June
Hippy Flip (MDMA & Mushrooms) – First Time – “Directionless Scarecrow”
Hippy Flip (MDMA & Mushrooms) – First Time – “Directionless Scarecrow”
2:24 pm
I take a blue clover and four shroom gel caps containing approximately 1.75 grams of mushrooms. Have a quick bath and smoke a joint.
2:47 pm
I’ve been having heart palpatations today. I was alright at work. As soon as I got out on the street, I started feeling weird. It took me about an hour to work out that it was a panic attack and that I wasn’t dying. It’s been a long time since I’ve cared enough to panic. My life has been numb for so long. MDMA has awakened something in me. For the first time, I think I’m starting to understand ecstasy. I’ve been unhappy for a long time. Miserably unhappy. I always used to criticize ecstasy for creating an artificial sense of happiness that I could do without. It seemed to be like relatively happy people rolled in order to make themselves super happy for a night. And maybe they do. But if you’re clinically depressed, and unmedicated, it’s a different story. About a year and a half ago, I was as depressed as a human could be. That’s how I saw it. People I know on medication, they’d never felt anything like this. The depression was severe, unbelievable. Since then it has gotten much worse. I feed it, my depression. I like misery. I remember myself saying that recently, anyway. The best way to lie to yourself is to spread your lie into your life as much as possible. Become the lie. Convince everyone around you that it is the truth, and it will become the truth. The power of denial is so great that, even though I am aware of my tendency to do this, I do not notice when it happens. Writing words on the screen serves the same function. If I read what I wrote one year ago, it won’t be true. It will only be a degree of truth, the amount I am willing to divulge to myself. I am trying to break down the barriers and admit everything. I am tired of etiquette and taboo. I am tired of pretending, for fear of incriminating myself, that I am not a drug user. Overhearing disapproving conversations from my peers, and just sitting there defenseless. Because I’m scum. That’s what it feels like to be a drug user. A disapoinment. A low life. An addict. This lie society spreads about me. I start to believe it. It becomes the truth. I am an addict. I am hopelessly addicted. I’m delusional. I’m not in control. It’s quite possible that I’m insane. But, the thing is I’m not an addict. I am in control. I just took a break for five weeks to prove it to myself. Because I start believing their bullshit. Substances are addictive, but that doesn’t make somebody who consumes them a lot an addict. People who drink reasonable amounts of alcohol, recreationally, are not alcholics. They’re not addicts. They just like to drink. And I like a bit of everything. In the past week I’ve had MDMA, DXM, alcohol, weed and magic mushrooms. I guess most people would consider that a lot. I don’t.
3:24 pm
I go to check on the Amanita caps. They aren’t leaking much juice any more. I turn them over and mop up the dark yellow liquid. The evaporator is still running. It has been going for four days. The Muscaria pieces are still slightly pliable. I have to conclude that they will never become cracker dry, and pack them into gel caps.
3:27 pm
So yeah I’ve been having these heart palpatations today. I was standing at the tram stop with a plastic bag full of Amanita Muscaria caps. This Asian girl kept staring at the bag. It was practically transparent. Inside, nine large red toadstools of varying size. My heart was beating fast. The girl smiled at me, and I realized that I was having a panic attack. I had jumped a fence into some corporate garden and picked a bunch of hallucinogenic mushrooms while having a panic attack. I was really paranoid and stressed. I have two days to finish a major assignment for uni, then another two days, and another. All my assignments are due in one week. I take my studies very seriously so it stresses me the fuck out. Felt like there was something seriously wrong with me. It’d been so long since I’d experienced panic, that I didn’t recognize it. I have been numbed by depression and self-hatred for so long, that panic didn’t make any sense. I still don’t understand it.
3:36 pm
My heart is beating like crazy. My world makes sense to me. Ecstasy threatens that. I wouldn’t say I enjoy MDMA particularly, but I find it more enlightening – in a way – than the drugs I am used to. I think this can be said for anything. I’ve had this idea for a long time, about constantly cycling through a selection of drugs . Like Monday could be weed. Then Tuesday, DXM. Wednesday, LSD. Thursday, MDMA. And so on. Cross tolerance would have to be taken into account, but I think it’s a pretty solid idea. For some reason, my brain tells me that it’s worse to do that than it is to just stick to one substance. I think it’s more socially acceptable in my head to only do one drug. The stigma attached to addicts is magnified by ten for me. I am a stoner. A tripper. A tweaker. A drinker. A smoker. A slammer. A plugger. I do more than ten different drugs, in various combinations, over the course of a year. So I feel like that weight of social stigma, heaver than I should. We all do.
3:44 pm
Categorization doesn’t mean anything. There is no good and bad. Depression is not the opposite of happiness. It isn’t. I’ve experienced both and they both have positive attributes. Heart break is not bad. The more times you can be turned upside down, the better. Assuming that you can handle it. Disaster is a better lesson than love; the absence of love is not the opposite of love. The opposite of love is nothing. You can’t define someone by something they do not have. Like the scarecrow from the wizard of Oz. Or the lion. I can never remember. I am not an entity missing a part, in search of becoming whole. I don’t believe anything is missing. I am a directionless scarecrow.
I smoke a cigarette. I roll it thick with tobacco. The usual accompanying hatred is not there. I deserve a cigarette. I’ve been working hard. I drink a glass of water from the fridge. Something I typically neglect. Water is amazing on ecstasy. I have to remember to drink.
3:59 pm
People are so enthusiastic when they talk to each other about nothing. They’re happy to talk their way through the hours of meaningless conversation between the actual conversations. I’m happy to not do so. Something happens, chemically, in the body, when we interact with other people. Other people are like drugs. Being close to another person does something to you. We are a co-dependent species. There’s nothing wrong with that. I just can’t do it. I have taken part in so many, and – since – overheard so many meaningless conversations. It’s weird to take MDMA on your own and think. Most people enjoy MDMA with other people. They’d find it weird, or sad, if I told them how I was consuming it. I treat everything like a trip. Because everything can be a trip. LSD has this exotic message. You see the world in a completely new and unique way. Then you take it again, and it repeats the same message. It cannot do anything else. I had a trip about a week ago, one of the strongest and most ego destroying trips of my life. But I knew how it was going to play out. MDMA is different. It has no less to teach than any other angle you might find yourself resting on. LSD tells you that there are no cognitive limits. But it takes you to a certain place, chemically, to do this. To repeat the experiment endlessly, is to miss the point. We should be going in different directions. Mushrooms and LSD make you ultra aware of your potential. But if you keep taking them, and don’t do anything about it, you will end up living the same life, with a heightened awareness of what your life could be. Living in a future that never comes.
4:10 pm
Drugs are competitive. It is difficult to flip channels constantly. There’s nothing more comfortable than a full blown addiction. Heroin threatens ecstasy and ecstasy threatens heroin. They are competing for me. I have at least three crutch drugs. Alcohol, mushrooms, and weed. These drugs own me. Like McDonald’s owns it’s obese patrons. Mushrooms like it when you eat them all the time. Alcohol loves company. They want you, as a repeat customer. And they will do anything they can to get you. Whatever your drug is, it is winning. I’m mixing my analogies here. And I’m writing fast with the spell check off. So aplgies for that. The only way to beat addiction is to cycle. And it only works if you happen to indulge in a large number of substances. The more the better. I think I might go insane. The rapid constant change of personalities is confusing me as it is. I don’t know who I am anymore. I guess that’s an inevitable problem. Alcohol makes me a different person. Weed makes me a different person. And so on. There are all these competing personalities. I don’t know if any of them are me. They are just a couple of infinite possibilities. Drugs that haven’t been invented, yet, creating yet another variation of my personality. Cycling drugs, daily, would mean living as someone with split-personality. That’s the problem with it. Most people can’t handle that. They like to know who they are. That’s why they stick to one drug. That’s why the don’t do drugs in the first place. That’s why they don’t change. I have the opposite problem. I have so many vastly different personalities, that I lose track of who I am. When the drugs wear off, I don’t know. It confuses me. Am I the angry maniac that I am when I’m drunk? Am I the quiet introspective type? Do I have to chose? I kind of like the idea of being both. Like if LSD teaches me that I don’t have to be x. Instead I can be y. I might as well be the whole alphabet, simultaneously. Do everything. Think everything. Be everyone. I’m not satisfied being a single personality. I don’t think people should be so easily definable. We have the potential to vary ourselves infinitely. I want to keep changing. Never settling in one place long enough to call it home.
4:29 pm
I wear odd socks most of the time. People always comment on it. It baffles them as to why somebody would wear one black and one white sock given the option of two blacks or two whites. I do it, because I can never find any clean socks. So I just put on whatever clean footwear I can find. I don’t care if it’s white or black. Mathematics dictates BB BW WW. And repeat. Those are the only possible variations. People don’t understand the odd sock phenomenon. This slight departure from the norm, baffles them. Particularly older people. They tell me they would never leave the house with odd socks on. And, I feel sorry for them.
4:35 pm
I run a bath and lie down to listen to John Lennon’s solo career. Nobody really appreciates Lennon. He matured after the Beatles. Yoko was the best thing that ever happened to him. I love the Beatles, but they are meaningless. His work didn’t really express anything aside from pop love. There are some really angry Lennon songs. The lyrics are angrier than the music. I quoted him to my Mum a couple of years ago and she said “that doesn’t sound like John Lennon” implying that I was incorrect. Because she wants to remember him as a Beatle. She doesn’t want to hear about the torment. The Beatles was all about trying to get people to like them. Commercial music is concerned with how many people are listening, more than what they can say. The priority is to sell records. And happy records sell. Just like ecstasy.
I was lying in the bath, thinking about not thinking. Then I stopped thinking. And it felt nice.
6:13 pm
The peak is over. I take another blue clover. I decide to listen to classical music. Bach blows my fucking mind. I almost don’t recognize it as music. It is so far removed from what I have been listening to recently. Much wilder and more experimental. After a couple of minutes I can’t even listen to it anymore. It’s fucking with my head. I change it to a German Mozart opera. I sit down to write a poem. The poem comes out beautifully – I will include it in my folio – but, I feel weird. I can’t sustain this over the course of a night. So I go across the street and get a six pack.
7:00 pm
Walking around feels bizarre. I’m a little paranoid, but nothing major. It’s like I’m in a different place. Like my suburb has been replicated, changed slightly, and substituted for the original. It doesn’t seem real. I walk briskly down the tram tracks, the tails of my trenchcoat flowing out behind me, the brim of my hat resting on my glasses. There is an old fella in the bottle shop buying a bottle of wine. He doesn’t like me. I suspect my pupils are massive. I cannot maintain eye contact with anyone. I get out of there as quickly as possible. The beer, Heineken, tastes really strong. Most of the time I’m not interested in the taste of beer. I ignore it. On MDMA, the taste is heightened. It’s a good thing I got a decent beer.
When I get home, I feel so much better. The weird edgy happy MDMA thing is kept safely at bay by the alcohol. Mozart’s fourth symphony is playing loudly. My cat is hugging the radiator, licking it’s paws. I am happy now. Rather, I am miserable. Which is my version of happy.
The song changes to Ave Maria, one of the most hauntingly beautiful songs ever composed.
I smoke a cigarette.
I smoke a joint and open my fourth beer. I am done. The joint would have done the trick by itself. The alcohol is just ridiculous. It is ridiculous. The word needs to be repeated, for you to understand how fucked I am. I am listening to the animals. It sounds like God. I am so blissfully accepting of every utterance, every note. Bliss is constant.
8:25 pm
I love my cat. She’s the fourth cat I’ve bought. The first three where obviously beautiful. A snow white, deaf female cat. A ginger tom. And a standard wildcat descendant. The third cat I bought was a mongrel. I love her because she’s flawed. Her patterns are all weird and random. My other cats are all beautiful. This one, the one sleeping on my lap, is like me. She’s a weirdo. She likes to turn upside down then cover her eyelids with a paw on a each side. Her head is always sideways. She lies down on me and tilts it at aright angle against my torso. I need to pee. So I hoist her up onto my shoulder like a parrot. She sits up there as I walk through the dark house. To the toilet. I pull my dick out and piss. I don’t flush. I go back to sit back down, lowering my kitten cat onto my lap. She burries herself into a doona dune. I rest the wireless keyboard on top of her to type. She’s purring underneath the keys. I give her a massage. I know her anatomy, subconsciously. I massage her into a rubbery state. She is a completely sedated and pliable cat. You can study massage. Or you can take a substance that makes you aware of your anatomy. I know not only human anatomy but all animals. There is an inherent knowledge of broader animalia within every cell of my body. But, it’s not even that. I just know from feeling the flesh of an animal where it’s tensions lay.
I open my fifth beer.
definitely enjoy your style as the others have said.