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so over the last few months, and esp. the past 5 days, I have been w/ the girl of my dreams; we have plans to be together but the problem is she is in LA and I am in Boston as of now; she still has a year and a half left of schooling out there she has to finish - so she cant move here till Dec. 2016.

I am making a move out of an apartment where I am now, and paying 1330/mo, to an apartment where my father owns the building (grandmother passed away) and I will be paying 500/mo. right there the savings themselves is a no brainier but Eastie is far from where I usually chill/hangout, so I have to get my license back and life back in order.

I will surly be taking public transportation much more since I am now down the street from the train station; I like things like that and I am sure things will be good but we'll have to see. I am just happy to be making these moves and putting my life in somewhat order and getting away from the "bad" and starting a BETTER life where the mistakes of the past will be forgotten and we can start FRESH!

FINALLY, things seem to be headed in the RIGHT direction, so lets see what is to come next!
so, I am sitting here at work just bored w/ nothing to do. feeling pretty damn good today because I took 3G of Phenibut and 2400MG of Gabapentin; yea, its a gaba combo but it makes me feel fucking great; esp. w/ the 12MG of bupe that I take daily, but I dont even consider that a drug at this point based on my terrible dope habit of the past (past being only a few months, lol).

so, what else is there to do all day!? sometimes I wonder what the fuck do people do all day; yea, I am sitting here at work but I hate my job. I work in Software Sales and I fucking hate it; I just call "customers" all day and try to sell, sell and sell some more. It's just talking and talking and talking; probably why I used to love being, what we say in Boston, "jammmmmmmmmed" while doing this. but now even w/ the bupe, phenibut and gaba, I feel fucking great at work but still really DONT WANT TO WORK!

what else!? hmmmmmmm.. well, its kinda funny cuz nowadays that I am not spending $100+ a day on dope, I always have money in my bank account or in my pocket; its kinda weird. something that is nice but takes some time to get used to. imagine having money always!? what the fuck! what am I rich or something? lol

OK, thats it for now.. thanks for reading this.. if you even did at all.

IF YOU READ THIS, JUST COMMENT PLEASE, I WANT TO SEE WHO ACTUALLY READS THIS SHIT.
well, its Monday.. and guess what!? I am kinda fucking miserable! but to be honest, I am not really that miserable, but just dont want to be at "work" right now. I put work in quotations marks because I truly hate my job and I honestly do not even consider it work; its more like jail time.. but I've been there, too.. and I guess jail is a little worse, ha. notice how I said a LITTLE!

so Friday I fly out to Los Angeles for a 5 day vaca w/ a girl! imagine.. 5 days in LA w/ a girl!? who would have thought a junked out addict like myself would ever make it out of the state and be able to do something like this. def. NOT ME if you asked me even 6-8 months ago. well, maybe a year ago cuz 6-8 months ago I STARTED to TRY and make a comeback to reality but was still using HARD! so yea, I get to go to LA and get the fuck out of Boston - I am EXCITED AS SHIT! ESP. to spend time w/ this girl and just have 5 days of not having to worry about a damn thing, like work, drugs, etc. I never thought this day would come again but here it is and I am ready to fucking go, baby!

my first time leaving the state in years, man. last time was a Vegas trip in 2011 or 2012, I kinda forget.. but I brought a bunch of 30's w/ me so I was still getting HIGHHHHHHHH the whole time - it was fun, dont get me wrong, but since then I've been junked out and broke as a MOFO, so to be able to do this again is exciting, esp. w/ a girl who I actually like, ya know!? who would have thought!?

me and the lady do plan on attending a concert out there and doing some MOLLY! should be fun, right? havent done 'E", now called "Molly" in over 10yrs; esp. since I hit the "hard" drug scene and only did HARD FUCKING DRUGS for the past 8 years, man! I say past 8 years but before that when I was a "club kid" I would do crystal, G, E, K and anything else to keep me up for days at a time as I partied; eventually it all ended and heroin/benzos were introduced/put infront of me and I left the "party" scene and went to a STAY AT HOME AND SHOOT DOPE SCENE for a long ass time! it fucking ruined my life in every possible way, which is why I am excited to GET BACK OUT THERE!

OK, so its Monday but I leave for LA Friday morning at 8AM and arrive at 12PM PST! I cant fucking wait!

ill post on my return.. or if something crazyyyyyyyyyyy happens in the meantime.
the excitement and build up of getting high, man did it cloud up my judgement

ingested a good dosage of poppy pods, didn't quite drink as much water as i should have while doing this
(ingesting dried pods really dry you up on the inside)

drank a monster energy drink and a 5 hour energy(which may have contributed to complications)

went and played basketball, 5 on 5 full-court
i played 4 consecutive games, over an hour and a half, with few breaks....lots and lots of running/sweating

had only drank a bottle a 32 oz'er of gatorade while playing

after playing i went out to the bar with some of the people i played with

after just one beer i started to get really light headed

like realllly light headed, to the point where i just left, without saying good bye to anyone cause i needed to get the fuck out of their

i got about half way to my car before i had fainted, fallen to the pavement
i had thought maybe i had crouched down and than fainted
but judging on how bad my elbows and fanny hurts today, i must have went down like a ton of bricks
very fortunate to have not fallen on my head, face or neck! luckily my body knew to use my ass cheeks and elbows for support

not sure how long i was unconcious for(i'd say between 20 seconds and a minute and a half), i was woken up by some stranger asking if i was okay, of course i said yeah

he's like no your not your going to the hospital and you're not driving home
must have thought i was drunk

i'm good(lol obviously, look at me, laying down in this parking lot, LIKE NOTHINGS A MATTER) and somebody else who i knew who was like yo, yo bro what you on bro? you okay bro? you tripping bro? what's up bro? lol

it was really embarressing because this happened in the company of some friends who are better friend's with my father

they were all like you can't be driving home, (blah blah blah)

i ended up driving home 20 minutes later(but followed), just fine

i'm 99% sure the reason i fainted was dehydration

it sure felt like a near-death experience
(i'm pissed off at my self for allowing this to happen and kinda shaken up)

be careful people!
i.e. don't put enormous stress on your heart when you are high on drugs and stuff
everyone seems to love telling stories, usually about themselves or their family/friends

and they love to build them up, taking the stage and rifling off consecutive statements

i nod and smile, because, cool story?

people like to say 'hey you don't talk much'

probably because i'm not a story teller

it doesn't take much to share something interesting or funny, i'll elaborate, only if you ask
Through my own self-assay, empirical knowledge, anecdotes, and so forth music becomes only tedious background noise when experienced under the effects of a sufficiently large dosage of a psychedelic drug.

Try this experiment: >750 μg LSD whilst listening to music, taking notes. Now, >750 μg LSD whilst motionlessly meditating in a silent darkness, taking notes.


Compare the two sets of notes afterward, noting the stark contrast between the systemic euphoria and the corporeal nature accompanying the drug coupled with the music and the deeply introspective, transcendental, and intellectually concentrated nature of the drug sans music.


Music becomes a cacophonous, tintinnabular distraction from the totality of the psychedelic experience. It only seems entertaining to listen to tunes whilst tripping because, I surmise, the music functions as an anchor, allowing one to ascend only so high before being snagged back down—like an inflated balloon's string being tied around a fixed object, so that every time it floats upward it gets stopped at a certain altitude.


In my opinion, extrinsic sensory stimuli in the presence of psychedelic experiences becomes like a tweaked-out, tenacious little fly that won't quit capriciously zipping about the ambient light emanating from one's TV monitor. The fly is the exogenous diversion, while the TV is the medium through which the psychedelic is experienced (that is, oneself and their percepts and sensoria), the ambient light is the effulgent sublimity one is meant to be observing if not for the attention-grabbing buzz of the nettlesome fly.


Language is inadequate here. But the gist of my comment is that there are but three modes through which to experience psychedelic phenomena, in order from least puissant to most profound:


1.) With a puerile demeanor, ready and set diversions, and all the lively, ostentatious trimmings a gala would require. This is the least fruitful of the three modes, but is also the most popular. It is the psychedelic mise en scène for anybody using psychedelics with the impression of having a wonderfully mirthful moment of bliss.


2.) Without all the superfluous amusements and ignorantly flippant fun of the former, but with a serious-minded set and an austere, sensory-deprived setting.


3.) With the dispassionate and thoughtful disposition as well as the austere and barren setting of the former, but with the purposeful introduction of meditation (not the terribly imprecise Westernised cultural appropriations of meditation, as typified by the absurdity that is this embarrassing New Age trite—I mean the according-to-Holye meditative praxis and doctrine, practiced since time immemorial on at least the Indian subcontinent), where emphasis is placed not on lithe bodily contortions or performing convoluted, tauten flexions of the extremities, but is placed onto the theory that underlay and inform the practice.) As Yogibera once asserted,


"In theory there is no difference between theory and practice. In practice there is."



राजयोगः समाधिश्छ उन्मनी छ मनोन्मनी | अमरत्वं लयस्तत्त्वं शून्याशून्यं परं पदम || ३ ||
अमनस्कं तथाद्वैतं निरालम्बं निरञ्जनम | जीवन्मुक्तिश्छ सहजा तुर्या छेत्येक-वाछकाः || ४ ||
सलिले सैन्धवं यद्वत्साम्यं भजति योगतः | तथात्म-मनसोरैक्यं समाधिरभिधीयते || ५ ||
यदा संक्ष्हीयते पराणो मानसं छ परलीयते | तदा समरसत्वं छ समाधिरभिधीयते || ६ ||
तत-समं छ दवयोरैक्यं जीवात्म-परमात्मनोः | परनष्ह्ट-सर्व-सङ्कल्पः समाधिः सोअभिधीयते || ७ ||


(English: Raja yoga, samadhi, unmani, manonmani, amaratva, laya, tatva, sunya, asunya, parama pada,
amanaska, advaita, niralamba, niranjana, jivanmukti, sahaja and turiya denote the same state of being.
Just as with salt dissolved in water becomes one with it, so the union of Atman and Manas (mind) is denominated samadhi,
When the breath becomes exhausted, and mind becomes Praliyate (still, reabsorbed), they fuse into union called samadhi.
This equality, this oneness of the two, the living self and the absolute self, when all Samkalpa (desire, cravings) end is called samadhi.


—Hath Yoga Pradipika, 4.3 - 4.7, )



योग: चित्त-वृत्ति निरोध:

(English: Yoga is the inhibition (nirodhaḥ) of the modifications (vṛtti) of the mind (citta)".
—Yoga Sutras 1.2



यदा पञ्चावतिष्ठन्ते ज्ञानानि मनसा सह ।
बुद्धिश्च न विचेष्टते तामाहुः परमां गतिम् ॥ १० ॥
तां योगमिति मन्यन्ते स्थिरामिन्द्रियधारणाम् ।
अप्रमत्तस्तदा भवति योगो हि प्रभवाप्ययौ ॥ ११ ॥[24]


(English: Only when Manas (mind) with thoughts and the five senses stand still,
and when Buddhi (intellect, power to reason) does not waver, that they call the highest path.
That is what one calls Yoga, the stillness of the senses, concentration of the mind,
It is not thoughtless heedless sluggishness, Yoga is creation and dissolution.)


—Katha Upanishad, 2.6.10-11



A psychedelic trip through a totally uncalmed mind is like a road trip through the Darién Gap—the destination is seldom reached, the journey is stalled and turbulent, the time it takes to arrive is incredibly protracted, and the entirety of what was meant to be an ambitious and adventurous expedition ends up an annoying and abortive inconvenience.
...(continuation)...If instead you turned left it was another dirt road but after an empty block owing to the formidable pink wall of the Phnom Penh Hotel you entered a spirit gate of the type found in most Asian villages, including the Arab Mid East intrrestingly. Through the gate was the "backpacker ghetto."

On both sides of the road which became partially paved were shoppes owned by expats and locals, all geared towards backpackers though, suprisingly, none of the good pharmacies so many crave. Guesthouse #9, Simons, Simons II, all the famous guesthouses.

There was a dirt lane connecting on the rightside that followed the lake's shore, lined with squatter shacks, again mostly Cham living on it.

The main road though, veered just a tad bit and then worked its way parallel to Monviong Blvd until ending at a small cul de sac where a couple of police lived, growing fat from the payoffs.

In 2011 they left that road alone, while demolishing the squatter areas on the side path, along the shore. Guesthouse #9 is now a Khmer-run gambling club where foreigners arent appreciated. The rest of the buildings on that short path to #9 have been left standing but strangely ALL shoppes are now owned by different Khmer and none are doing the same type of business as the previous owners. The famous tiny bookstore by #9 is now akin to a corner shoppe run by a middle aged Khmer lady.

There are 3 guesthouses still catering to foreigners but literally, the dregs of the backpacker trail have washed up there. A Ponytailed 60-year old Dutchmen muttering to himself picking up fag butts out of the mud, a pockmarked 70-year old old trying to get a quarter gramme of #4 for $10 US on credit and waiting hours...As I stood talking to old friends a taxi pulled up and out came 3 Western backpackers, as if they were scammed by outdated travelogues and blogposts.

I spent an hour photographing the street art done by expats when the evictions took place in 2011. Then I went, taking a gift of .75 gramme of #4 just for old time sakes. I am regularly dosing on 220mg of methadone, last dosing on the NYC to Tapei longhaul. Just 30mg of that powder #4 got me high. That is how potent heroin is here and that gift was street garbage. The 4 gramme piece I got later was...well I will get to that a bit later...
Last time I ventured to Beong Keouk, the famed "Lake" of backpacker legends, was 2012, a year after the destruction began. At that point the Lake still existed. Its all gone now.

The biggest shock was what happened to the mosque. When you came off Monviong Blvd on Street 93, at the old Hard Rock Cafe on the left corner, next to the 5 Star Phnom Penh Hotel, and on the other corner Calmette Hospital, until last year the best medical care in Cambodia since the 1960s- of course a big break in the Khmer Rouge Era and subsequent Vietnamese Occupation, you could see the street lined with Cham-owned businesses.

At the end of Street 93, a short street, 1 block, was a huge decrepid mosque built with Saudi money in an attempt to bring the Cham and other indigenous Muslims into Wahabbism. Cham and other groups have always practiced a synchrestic faith that was far more Animist than it was Muslim and so the mosque and attached school fell into disuse and squalor. To the right of where that mosque stood is now an ornate, fabulously adorned mosque. Cham still do not use it hahaha.

You could turn right or left. Right was a dirt road that ran 2 blocks and had a few decrepid businesses and one decent guesthouse. There was a dirt path that connected at an angle. It ran along the lake shore. This was a mostly a Cham squatter slum. On the far end were 2 crappy guesthouses, one of which was the infamous "Sunset," which had more ODs than any other- though Guest House #9 on the opposite shore gave if a good running.

Sunset was owned by an apparently Autistic English kid whose parents staked him in a moneypit where Khmer leeches bled him dry. He hated me hahaha. I remember in 2007 my friends cousin was pissed at losing my purchases (heroin) and grassed me out telling the English kid that Rizza and I were narcotics police. The kid was that stupid and as I walked in on New Years Ever 2007/2008 to ask him for a refund so that I could get a better place- so as to please Rizza- it was the English kid who asked me to leave and offered my money back and then some! No problemo... To be continued...
The weather has finally cooled and feels good. For the last 3 weeks, Paris was under a brutal heat wave. In a few days, I'm going backpacking solo in the Alps for 2 weeks. Mina is back from Algeria.

Mina had been gone for 1 month to stay with her mom in her seaside house. Now that she is back, she is suddenly inviting me to go with her and meet her mom in Algeria next month. Algeria is one of those countries the US government warns you to stay out of. After meeting her mom and the rest of her family, we would spend some time sight seeing and then backpacking in the Atlas mountains and some in the Sahara desert.

Mina had been gone for 4 weeks, and that's a long time. In the mean time, I have been seeing a lot of Ritzko. Ritzko grew up in Japan and went to college (Harvard) in the US. After grad school, she was a reporter for the Wall Street Journal (pre Murdoch) for several years. Later, she moved to Paris and does something completely different.

I spent a year in the desert practically alone and never felt lonely. Here, I feel horribly, lose_my_mind and need morphine for comfort lonely after Mina was gone for only a few days. Not wanting to sleep my life away on morphine, I tried to keep myself busy with Ritzko.

I still don't know what it means for a woman, especially an Arabic woman, to invite me to visit her mother. In the US, in my experience, it has meant the woman is claiming you. Her mom is a moderately religious Muslim as well. I have no idea if my guess is right, but I have the impression they take boy-girl relationships more seriously in that culture. I will take it as a compliment and go.

Other than that, is she trying to send me a message? Or am I over-thinking this? The reason I think she might be trying to send me a message is because of something that happened with Sara, a grad student from Pakistan. Sara was in the same lab with me several years ago. She was nice to me from the day she met me. Soon, she started giving me presents. They were only things like boxes of tea or a book every now and then. I didn't think anything of it.

One day, Sara spotted me having coffee with another girl I knew. The girl was not my girlfriend, but the next day, Sara went apeshit at the lab. She asked me how my "girlfriend" was. I told her that wasnt my girl friend but she wasn't satisfied. She glared at me the whole time she was there that day. She looked like she had gone crazy. Then she ripped up my project poster and quit.
Got into Tapei at 530AM local time, grateful to get off that horrid longhaul. I was impressed with the construction at the airport and for the first time had to connect in another terminal. Took the tram and at 740AM I boarded for Phnom Penh.

A bland meal of an onelette, a chicken sausage, fruit salad, hot roll, fake orange juice and a real, concentrated apple juice. Blaaaah.

Got to Cambodia just after 9AM which was alot quicker than I recall it being. I know a few people at the airport so skipped passport and customs. In 3 days my passport will be delivered with a 6 month business visa, now called "special visa." Usually you pay $35.00 and get a 30 day special visa. At 30 days you can then opt for up to a year, costing nearly $300.00. My 6 month costs me $20.00 for the commamder of the airport Immigration unit. My friends do not accept bribes from me but they cant get around the big kahuna, or rather, they could but if caught they would be in serious trouble.

Since the Lake is gone I no longer have a need for World Star, a great little hotel on Monviong Blvd. I like to be where it is at if alone and so I found a nondescript place by the river. I will not give the name, street and/or price until I move from it for obvious reasons.

Currently Im exhausted, hot from an hour and a half in heavy traffic sitting in a tuk tuk in which I sadly noted that Phnom Penh now rivals Manila for smog, progress as they say.

Sitting naked on one of two twin beds watching cable and waiting for a coca cola to nearly freeze in the mini fridge. After I will wash up and then go see a couple of friends, cop some #4 of course haha and grab a bite to eat.
I felt so peaceful yesterday, my afterglow made me feel extremely connected to the world.

It's been over 24 hours and slipping into day two.

Does anyone else getting kinda silly the following days? This isn't Norma for me. My calm usually sticks around for a week.

Apparently not this time!!
After a day of calm, I gave myself a 2 hour yoga session last night before bed. That shit works better then any drug my doctors prescribe me for my insomnia. Screw diazepam, Human Origami is where it's at!

Slept for 5 hours and my Leaf told me that it was pretty peaceful with not much movement. Didn't really need a bite-sized computer to tell me that though cause I sprang out of bed like a clapper.

Switched on my computer to get ready for work but I had this incredible urge to just DO stuff. Since I went all cleaning-frenzy yesterday, it ruled out housework. Decided to weed the garden with my morning coffee and smokes, and gave myself a pedicure.

Sat down to do some work before a work conference, only to receive an email saying it had been cancelled. Perfect. I have so much energy inside of me, I need to release it somewhere. Somehow.

Nerd convention coming up in 2 months time, so dragged out the sewing machine, chucked on Max Max and happily sewing up a storm here.

I don't know why I'm not feeling the peace. I will look through my journals later and see if I can find any answers.

Last night I felt my calm was going down into slight depression. My calm was taking my mind to places that made me sad and cry. I could explain that to myself. I told myself that the booster I had was too much. I experienced, I learnt and can adjust next times dosage accordingly. Justifying feelings help push me back into control with my thoughts. I was able to talk myself out of the slump my mind wanted to go to. Close call though. Phew.

Maybe psychologically, my mind is now making up for that lapse. My diet and wellbeing, frame of mind and routine, is the same as any other drop. Why must drugs be so complicated and unpredictable? 1 + 1 should always equal 2. So why does it equal 3 this time? I MUST be missing something in my data.

I am interested to see if my afterglow lasts the usual week. I am up and down this time, so while its annoys me that my paper math isn't adding up, I am super curious as to where this new road leads me. I feel like I accidentally leaned against the "Do Not Press" button, and now I get to see what happens.

Hugs and Love

Claudia xo
WARNING: If you have a delicate constitution you might not want to read the following, at least not while you eat hahaha...

Suprise, suprise, the plane didnt stop in Alaska as scheduled. I didnt even know China Air was capable of flying straight through. It will save me at least a half hour which is saying a whole lot on a 15 to 16 hour flight. At the moment we should be over Japan.

When I left the South Bronx at 6PM on the 22nd I dosed with 1 bottle of methadone (220mg) for the first time in 24 hours. Then, as soon as we leveled off at 2AM on the 23rd I took a second bottle (220mg) with my meal, chicken congee, peach yogurt, grapefruit and orange sections and warm water- Chinese arent big on real juice or milk, the latter because of the Lactose Intolerance that affects most East Asians. You wont find farmers making cheese or yogurt, etc.

One of the many things I have picked up in my travels around the world is a nasty case of H. Pylori, a stomach bacteria that causes most ulcers. In 2011, as discussed in my other blog, I had a life threatening bout. I was so weak that standing up made me literally pass out. Just walking 3 meters to a sink was enough to make me sleep for 20-odd hours.

I couldnt eat for more than 3 weeks. I only replenished with ginger ale, half to 1 can per day. One day I was able to get down some broth from a liter of Wonton Soup. During that time it was July and August and so hot, well you get the idea. One night I dreamed I was swimming in a lagoon, in cold water but then I awoke parched as hell, my body's way perhaps, of telling me I needed to rehydrate. Noone was there at that time so I got myself up out of my bed which was itself like a stinking wet rag from all my sweat. Standing there swaying I was only faintly lucid. I somehow made those 3 meters and discovered why I was probably having that dream. The faucet had been left running full blast as a cook broiled hamburgers in a skillet which at that point was unattended, a terrible habit that that cook had.

I gratefully drank my fill but then when I turned to walk back I passed out. My arm hit the skillet handle which flipped the skillet into the air and the hamburgers flew through the air along with the grease. By luck I was only slightly burned on one arm. When the cook returned she summoned help and I was carried back to bed.

The cure though was much worse. They prescribed a regimen that includes 3 drugs that come bundeled together, at $400 US per day for 8 days. I took the first course. An hour and a half later my face was in a loo wretching. I didnt stop for 9 hours. Doctors tried to convince me to change the Antibiotic in the regimen but I had had it. At its worst H. Pylori had me vomiting dhiarraraea- most do not even know that is possible. Having feces hurled out of my mouth over and over for 10 minutes paled in comparison to that 9 hours of wretching. And on that note, we are 2.5 hours out of Tapei at this point so they are serving our second meal. Yummy! From vomiting dhiarraea to Chinese food!...
I usually take one of two carriers on Asian long hauls, China Air or Cathay Pacific. I have usually used Cathay the last couple of years but at $830 for a one way to Phnom Penh via Tapei I opted for China. They have added a new class, "Economy Premium." They kept the normal Economy legroom for that new class while those from the great unwashed masses such as myself are squeezed into the tightest fit I have ever felt on any international carrier. If I really wanted to whine Id complain about the worst film and TV selection as well but since they do have WiFi I will let that stand haha.

Right now Im above Alaska and about to descend into Anchorage where we will deplane for a half hour of refueling and cleaning before the last leg, Anchorage to Tapei. I am on the window and my seatmates are a 20-something Taiwanese couple, very, very sweet since if I opt to use the loo I have to wiggle my fat Jewish ar*e in their faces. He gets up but she just sits there on the aisle.

I wish we still had photo galleries on BL. I would love to add pictures, not only of Phnom Penh but of Anchorage Airport. They have huge dioramas with stuffed wildlife, Polar Bears, walruses, you name it...
Sometimes I'm an optimist, sometimes I'm a a pessimist. Sometimes I'm a realist. Where does that leave me? I have a different solution to the problem from one moment to the next, and I'm a full-on believer in the diamond spirit. Then, I will see the opposite philosophy, and I will say, "oh, that sounds valid too," and all of a sudden I find myself doing the opposite, with different but exactly comparable poistive creative energy.

In this way, I am yours for the taking. In this way I am vital. Life is alive. But also in this way, life is dead. There is my wall. There is my wive's wall. There is a dissatisfaction and unexamined anger that scares me less than I know it should. The anger is legion. The Love is legion as well, but that's no good excuse.

If I write you a poem, will you read it? I am lonely. I have made so many mistakes. I am so lonely. I am at fault. I wish to repair. I am lost. I love my children. I love them so much. I'm sad around them. I hate myself. I wish to repair.

No, you won't read my poem. I will end with self-pity. It's what I hate most about others. In me; I wish to be rid of it. How can I let you? Go! Gonna get you! Be gone now, I bet you!

Oh Buddha, near Bodhi, stay put now. Hold on there. We wander no longer.
The following days after MDMA is such a peaceful experience for me, I tend to get excited about the afterglow as much, if not more then, the actual drop.

The 24 hours following the comedown are the best though.

I'm sitting outside having a smoke. It's quiet and sunny outside, with only the sound of children playing with a ball a few houses down.

It's so peaceful, so pretty.

I feel so calm and at ease with the world.

MDMA always cuts my sleeping time to about 3 hours, and yet I feel like I awoke from a long, deep and refreshing slumber.

I've been awake for 2 hours now. Showered and washed my hair, stripped my bed and washed my sheets, cleaned up from last nights antics, and done the dishes.

The house is clean and homely. I feel clean and fabulous. And the sun and gardens feel and look so perfect.

I'm feeling a tad dehydrated from last night, so sipping on a water bottle, and have a bottle of Soylent to try and put nourishing nutrients back in my body. If I can make sure my macro/micro nutrients are perfect, I can make this feeling last up to a week. Easy to do when I have no appetite, and my meals are prepared weeks in advance, only needing to add water.

I plan to study today, with a gym session later, and yoga tonight.

Hugs and Love,

Claudia xo
I have been ready to leave NYC for almost a month now but became absolutely lethargic on methadone. When I am in Asia I maintain on prescribed morphine (in Mindanao) or Dihydrocodeinone, Promethazine and Diazepam, all OTC in Cambodia. Of course a liberal amount of #4 is consumed. It is far cheaper than the aforementioned medicine. In Asia I complain about not having methadone. Morphine is almost always a locally produced IR syringe/oral tablet. IR of course produce valleys and peaks that are difficult to accomodate after consuming methadone for so long. With a 36 hour halflife and the internal resevoir created by regularly dosing above 70mg (I take 220 daily) methadone affords a calmer and thereby more productive lifestyle for me.

The flipside is that when I am on methadone for any considerable length of time I begin yearning for morphine...or #4. The grass is always greener as they say.

Since my last extended stay in Phnom Penh almost 6 years ago I have visited the city 3 times. With each successive visit I have been shocked at the nation's rapid progress. Sadly, that progress resulted in Beong Keouk Lake and the so called "backpacker ghetto" that sprung up around parts of the lakeshore having been destroyed. As I noted in my old blog it was an eventuality that had been bandied about since 2004. I for one thought it would never happen as the lakeshore and its hedonism was a top draw of the tourist trade and so I thought the nation's dictator- Hun Sen- would be wise enough to leave it as is. $88 million US from a Chinese conglomerate changed his mind.

The backpacking scene has partially relocated to the riverside, the "river" being the Mekong which flows out of Vietnam's delta into Cambodia, then separates Laos, Thailand and Myanmar (Burma) before ending up in a spectacular canyon on the Chinese and Tibetan border. Street 172 around Street 19 is now where it is most lively.

In an hour I have to take my tired old ar*e onto the subway. Being in the South Bronx it will probably take me almost 2 hours on two trains to get to a busstop where I will then wait for a city bus. That bus will then take me to my terminal at JFK. I bought a one way ticket which is what I almost always do now that it is simple to forge proof of onward passage.

Honestly speaking I have only ever been caught out there a single time. In 2009 Rizza and I were flying from Bangkok to Manila on one of the world's worst airlines, Cebu Pacific. I had become so jaded that I no longer forged proof of onward passage. We get to the ticket counter to check in 40 minutes before our flight left. A gay Filipino clerk asked for the aforementioned proof. "Uhhh, my wife is a Filipina and since we are married I have balikbayan status (meaning I do not need onward passage to enter)." The clerk told me I needed it for me or I couldnt board.

We quickly walked through the terminal and in a stroke of luck we found a cybercafe. It took me about 10 minutes to forge what I needed and we were let through. So I have since made sure to make a simple forgery before flying.

I am amazed at how cheap tickets are now! $613.00 can get you from NYC to Phnom Penh! The problem though is that is a bundeled deal, take Delta to Detroit of all places, then switch to Korean Air for a long haul to Seoul, then wait 7 hours for a 5 hour flight to Cambodia. No thanks. When you have two airlines with a 40 minute layover between both (in this case in Detroit) you are almost guaranteed a missed flight. Miss that flight and you usually will be shi*e out of luck since it was a bargain basement bundling. You get what you pay for.

Anyway, my flight is supposed to have WiFi. If so I will bore you some more while barreling through the night sky above North America.
With a new ID I have had to leave my almost 400 blog entries as "Rachamim" and start anew. As luck would have it I have achieved "Bluelighter Status" on my day of departure and so I will be able to keep myself occupied blogging both on my long haul and in my new kind of/sort of home, both of which I will discuss in my second entry.

I returned to America at the end of 2013 in hopes of getting a slot in a trial for what was then an experimental medication for Hep-C. For those who used to read my "Rachamim" blog entries, in 2008 I had come to America from my home in Mindanao in the Southern Philippines in order to obtain Interferon which at that time was the treatment with the most sucess with combatting Hep-C. I suceeded in getting that treatment and received injections of pegylated Interferon and Ribavarin, a Protease Inhibitor in the form of a capsule.

Going into treatment I had a viral load of 110,000. My first blood work at 4 weeks was a viral load of only 10,000, a huge decrease obviously and I foolishly allowed myself to get excited. Then my personal life crumbled. My wife (at that time), Rizza, was back home in Mindanao taking care of our businesses. In short, I discovered that she had run away with some kid she had met in university. I never loved her but the fact that I was in business (rice mills, cattle, sugar cane, tree farming and land speculation) and relied upon her serving as my eyes and ears while I was abroad made her actions very stressful. Moreover, her actions made her family lose a huge amount of "face," making my relations with her family troubled as well.

The stress apparently manifested itself in my overall health. My next bloodwork at 8 weeks showed that I had rebounded to a viral load of 70,000. Such a massive increase meant that my treatment had failed. I had contracted Hep-C in 1984 (diagnosed 1991) so that my virus had progressed to Stage 4. It was literally a life and death issue for me.

I consigned myself to an early death in the not too distant future. In fact, I would have been on the verge of liver failure right now had I not been extremely lucky with the aforementioned experimental treatment. In 2013 a friend of mine with Albert Einstein Hospital here in New York City emailed me and told me that there was a promising trial taking shape and she asked me to participate knowing how my first attempt had failed so miserably. Now FDA Approved, "Solvadi" costs $1,400 per day, imagine??? I not only received it for free but was paid a stipend for participating.

My first bloodwoork at 4 weeks came back undetectable!!! I was declared Cured five weeks ago, after a 6 month regimen and so my time in the US was coming to an end...
well I just got a brand new connection the dealers got sooooooooo much weed and a medium amount of mushrooms In stock and I just bought 2 hits of shrooms and a ball of kush which I will light up later

-Streetcow
[While the current title and subtitle of this whimsical composition is, I suppose, sufficiently sufficient (an intentional tautology, appended if for no better reason but for the sheer orgiastic oratorical onanism, therewithal) and satisfies me more than if this farcical blog entry was to be left totally bereft of any functioning title whatsoever, I still am somewhat dissatisfied with the whole business of entitling blogs on Bluelight.

What can I say? There's no justifying my eccentricity: captious caviling and capricious caterwauling, all over linguistic punctilio and all out if an inborn monomanical obsession with communicative proficiency and perfection percolating down to the finest of details. And not to mention -- OK, I'll stop with the tangents and mouthy meandering for now.

Anyway, back to the topic of the title. As I've never been one to count that which is pithy and pointed as having precedence and priority over that which is piquant and poignant, one would see clearly why I would take such umbrage with the inclusion of a mandatory and unavoidable character limitation for blog titles.

One of the paramount reasons for why I frequent online message boards and avoid Twitter, YouTube, and other awful Internet offal is because message boards typically allow for unfettered, unlimited, and relatively unrestricted communicative expressivity—which I happen to greatly enjoy.

But, once again, my attempts at verbal freshness, impressive expression and expressive impression, authorial creativity, and vocable virtuosity, and generally dexterous word slinging have proved arrantly abortive, as the entelechy of my elocution is thwarted by a unnecessarily stupid, incredibly inane, stupefyingly stultifying, rebarbative and superfluous character limit.

As I had previously styled this title—with all tantalizing, titular turgidity (in a good way) and phrasal fecundity—having had initially decided upon a more apropos and demonstrative title with which to denominate and style this apocryphal anecdote. But, not to sound repetitive, as per usually, my attempts at creative composition were unavailing.

At any rate, this text was not cooked up with the intention to carom dulcet syllables and mellifluous lexemes against a bovine audience's eardrums. Like it, dislike it; love it, loathe it; take it or leave it—you have your druthers and as well as the freedom to avert your eyes at what they find unsightly.

As with all my written material, the person to whom I should strive to please is myself. It is my opinion that a writer ceases to be any longer a writer when they write not for their own amusement or satisfaction, but to obsequiously oblige another. At that lowly, pitiable point the writer goes from being a creator of text to being indistinguishable from that of the work-for-hire amanuensis; the scribe has transmogrified into the secretary, as a kind of reversed metamorphosis—the graceful and beauteous butterfly has regressed to the slithering, hard-featured, uglily undulating, corpulent and distended wormlike caterpillar. A critter no more appreciable than its legless lookalikes: the vile worm and the repugnant slug.]

Well, there was that one time—not too far back—when I had fallen asleep on the couch at a friend of a friend's house. Took a few handfuls too many downers, drank a few too many shots of Bourbon, and to make a long and discomfitting story short and easier to confess, I blacked out on the davenport whilst watching reruns of Frasier.

Woke up some hours later, and, well--erh--I just knew that, whatever had happened, it wasn't right. But I've been having weekly, one-to-one therapy sessions ever since. A tête-à-tête with a phlegmatic, affectedly sympathetic therapist; dispassionately ensconced in a leather executive armchair positioned behind a megalithic mahogany wooden desk (which probably costed more than my car).


Yep, a professional sinecure of a psychiatrist, to whom I'm paying a higher rate for a one hour session than I would for a licentious liaison with a high-class harlot. At least the harlot sucks my cock and lets me fuck her before she takes my whole week's wages for a hour's tryst. At any rate, the shrink has a lot in common with the strumpet: they both get paid exorbitant rates for an uncomfortably awkward and fleeting moment of their time; they both are overpaid and underworked while I am over paying to be overworked; they both have an uncanny ability to make my money feel squandered, my time seem frittered, and my worth seem nothing but negligible and my existence entirely expendable. But I'm getting too discursive, here.


Anyway, I feel I'm making real strides now, honestly; the doc thinks I'm fast approaching a full recovery and all this will soon be behind me (if only the trauma didn't cause me to have such a terrible fear of things being behind me, surely I'd find progress coming more quickly and more often, but I digress).


Ah, right -- I almost forgot! There's one last thing to add: I presume the obvious fact I'm being droll and waggish needs to be explicitly stated, out of consideration for those of amid the audience of whom suffer from profound intellectual deficiencies and tone-deafness (with regarding to overtones and undertones—that's called a pun), and also any cretins positioned to the far left side of a Guassian distribution for intelligence quotient (or being at least 3 standard deviations below the mean, median, or mode IQ of the sample). And so there you uncouth oafs have it. Your very own supererogatory-and-unnessarily-protracted-for-anybody-not-affected-by-a-pathological-case-of-feather-brained-feeble-minded-fuck-headedness caveat, you clodhoppers.

But one thing is still puzzling me: why do the figurative and literal senses of 'butthurt' differ so markedly their meanings? When one is figuratively butthurt, the connotation is that they're miffed, indignant, offended, or chagrined. Whereaif one is said to be literally butthurt—as in having a painful sensation emanating from their and they're emotionally nothing of the sort.


What sensible person would actually find anger, offense, indignation, annoyance, or petulance to be appropriate and suitable emotive reactions to being afflicted with a severe case of hemorrhoids, being sodomized by an uuncomfortably well-endowed rapist, having a chronic anal fissure which repeatedly rips and bleeds profusely each time you take a shit or wipe your ass, etc.?


To me, it would seem more natural to become despondent, forlorn, emotionally labile, lachrymose—lying curled up into a fetal position overwrought with dreary self-abasement, in a mire of dejection, lugubrious and ashamed while you unavailing try to drown your sorrows facedown in a puddle of your own tears.
I just this weekend came into receipt of a parcel containing four pristine bottles of premium Ceylon Arrack—a total 700 cL of a satisfyingly salubrious Sri Lankan aqua vitae.

This has remained my primary eventide elixir since I found it as a gift-wrapped oblong box before the steps of my roommate's portico. From just a cursory coup d'œil of the thing, diaphanously bedecked with déshabillé and shamelessly exposing all that glorious grace that was the dilapidated condition and awkwardly crude placement of the conspicuously defiled delivery. This left no small blot on the postal service's escutcheon, and the perpetrator of this postal peril should be viciously beaten with a blunt metal instrument until barely conscious and left soggy and drenched, severely disfigured, and slowly drowning facedown in an ankle-deep, sanguine, viscous puddle of congealed blood.

an apparent victim of an incautious and crass merry-andrew of a mailman with no obvious capacity to distinguish between the gentle placement of something and caroming it onto concrete with a shockingly unnecessary degree of violence. What did the postmaster envisage happening by having entrusted the parcel's transport to a incautious, careless, and crass mentally unhinged merry-andrew of a mailman? Luckily, the contents were unscathed. But I'm not sure which I'd rejoice more over: the consumption of this delectable imported libation or actually having this stupid, clodhopping cocksucker of a courier break the bottles to bits just so I can revel in a rhubarb with this repugnant rubecatching cathartic pelting




It was meant just as an amicable gratuity, and vouchsafed by a close confrère (a fellow debaucherous dipsomaniac and brazon bon vivant, currently half a world away for a homeland habitation spent partaking of the joys of family and hearth, whilst jauntily living out the epilogue of a year-long sabbatical),
I just this weekend came into receipt of a parcel containing four pristine bottles of premium Ceylon Arrack—a total 700 cL of a satisfyingly salubrious Sri Lankan aqua vitae.

This has remained my primary eventide elixir since I found it as a gift-wrapped oblong box before the steps of my roommate's portico. From just a cursory coup d'œil of the thing, diaphanously bedecked with déshabillé and shamelessly exposing all that glorious grace that was the dilapidated condition and awkwardly crude placement of the conspicuously defiled delivery. This left no small blot on the postal service's escutcheon, and the perpetrator of this postal peril should be viciously beaten with a blunt metal instrument until barely conscious and left soggy and drenched, severely disfigured, and slowly drowning facedown in an ankle-deep, sanguine, viscous puddle of congealed blood.

an apparent victim of an incautious and crass merry-andrew of a mailman with no obvious capacity to distinguish between the gentle placement of something and caroming it onto concrete with a shockingly unnecessary degree of violence. What did the postmaster envisage happening by having entrusted the parcel's transport to a incautious, careless, and crass mentally unhinged merry-andrew of a mailman? Luckily, the contents were unscathed. But I'm not sure which I'd rejoice more over: the consumption of this delectable imported libation or actually having this stupid, clodhopping cocksucker of a courier break the bottles to bits just so I can revel in a rhubarb with this repugnant rubecatching cathartic pelting




It was meant just as an amicable gratuity, and vouchsafed by a close confrère (a fellow debaucherous dipsomaniac and brazon bon vivant, currently half a world away for a homeland habitation spent partaking of the joys of family and hearth, whilst jauntily living out the epilogue of a year-long sabbatical),
Hey guys ,

My name is Truly Blessed and I have been on this forum for 2 years now due to mdma abuse. I used to be addicted to opiates 5 years ago abut quit and fully recovered. I did mdma with a couple of friends not truly understanding how this drug worked . I abused it for 1 month in a row and ended up with a Ltc as they call it. My life has been a daily struggle for 2 years and 6 months now. I know there is mdma recovery thread but the reason I am posting is I want to hear from people who this happened to more than 2 years ago and see how they are coping . I know most people drop off after they have recovered a bit. I have head tightness as well as eye tightness everyday as well weird dizziness . Palpitations got better and I also have a uniquely mdma type hppd where everything is just too fucking bright. My question is did any of you guys become more recovered after the 2 to 3 year mark and has anyone had the luck of having visual disturbances retract. By the way I have done every single test under the sun all normal. Thanks and sorry for the grammar.
You know what my mom told me before I left to start this job here in Seattle? My mom, older handicapped brother and I were sitting together in my brothers room(at a home with people like him stay)my mother told my brother in front of me 'Alex,your brother drew will be leaving to go to Seattle,He is going to go see and experience things for you,and will work hard like you would have if you were with him'. My brother is blind and has the mind of a 3yo. You know how upset it makes me when I see mean things happen around me?i try and help others because its what my brother would have done if he wasnt sick.

I hope people will read this and will do something good for someone they do know, or don't. Doesn't matter. Good things happen to Good people that does good things.
One Love.
so, over the past month and a half I've been the BEST I've been since being on the outside (jails, institutions, and.. well, not death) in a long ass time. I actually went 3 weeks w/o using; yes, I am scripted bupe but to me that is sobriety, so fuck off if you think otherwise.

well, even when on bupe I'd still screw up and always used every 3-4 days but managed to go 3 weeks before eventually going back and buying a GOOD AMOUNT of dope from the usual; anyway, I was always shooting fent laced dope, so it was pure white, but he gave me 2 brown bags and I was just thinking to myself, "wow, this will suck; no fent in here". well, I open up 1G and I decide to shoot 1/3 - I get the shot off after being OFF suboxone the last 24hrs and I feel great; I seriously felt great but in my head, as a usual junkie, I am still thinking I could feel better, or should have shot more. so I go back to the stack and there is 2/3 of a G remaining. I split it into 4 shots and I take 1 shot.

now, mind you, I am on the phone w/ my GF who knows what I am doing; we are doing SKYPE and she sees me shoot. well, I shoot and I say something stupid; then all of a sudden a look comes over my face, and I just slowly start to close the eyes and just pause in the same spot for literally 2-3 minutes. finally I start to slowly, very, very slowly tip over onto the ground. I knocked over a glass bottle on the table, the chair, the needles, etc. 20 mins go by and I wake up on the fucking FLOOR of my kitchen w/o a clue as to what happened. I suddenly get up and just clean and clean, pick things up, broken glass, etc. so the minute I am done w/ that what do you think I did next!? thats right, I shot another 1/4 what I had left.

from there I called the girl back and she was in panic mode said she was going to call the cops, etc. she is a addict/past addict herself so she has an idea how the game is played, unfortunately. its sad that I did that and I ended up finishing those 2G's that night. I was miserable the whole next day and just did not feel myself; I felt much better taking my 12MG bupe daily than I did after shooting that dope, or even while on the dope.

since that day, which was over a week ago, I have not touched or used again. I have had no urges, only bad thoughts and memories about what happened last weekend and how that COULD have been my last day living; it was just a wake up call I feel, right? I almost OD'd AGAIN.. and if anyone was there w/ me I prob. would have woken up in a ambulance or a hospital. I am thankful I was alone and thankful no one did anything and just let me awake; yes, I could have died but I didnt and it, once again, had woken me the fuck up!

I know, I know.. this has happened to others and they went back. well, I've OD'd multiple times but for whatever reason this past few months things have just felt different; that last OD truly woke me the fuck up. I have been living a fun, happy life the past 4 months I've been "clean". and I almost took it all away last week because I wanted to "try" something because I "missed" it I told myself.

its shit like this that sometimes truly "wakes" us up.
http://www.thblack.com/links/RSD/ClinPharmacokin2002_41_1153_VariabilityClinicalPKofMethadone.pdf
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