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Its a Wednesday which would probably suck if I had a job. But nope I have no job, live with my father still, and collect money for disability from when I was diagnosed with schizophrenia from having stem abuse induced psychotic episodes. They still think im schizophrenic which is fine with me because there almost done taking me off my haldol then I can trip again. I threw away all my 1p-lsd because I took 4 hits and the haldol killed the trip and made my heart rate high as if I were jogging for 8 whole hours. I told my dad bout it, he suggested I throw it away if it makes me feel bad, so I did not considering i could have held on to it until im off the haldol injections. Oh well no use crying over spilled milk. Well im going to smoke some SHIT and blog again another day

This was only a dream. Don't read it if you don't like reading about dreams, especially when they're mildly pornographic or borderline paranoid.

It happened. We got a cabin with a couple, which are our friends, and we were all in the hot tub and got out to use the bathroom and I walk out and he is in our bedroom standing there and grabs me...omg. I was just shocked and sooo fucking hot for him. I asked him probably 5 times since he threw me on the bed if this was really ok with our spouses before he fucked me. Mmmhmmm it was so good and he is so good...very very very great lay! He is fun and I could fuck him for hours, but it started just as quickly as it ended... Then the next night, Patrick ran upstairs with me to their room, and I had no idea what he wanted to do and we fucked again, full swap.

God damn he is so yummy. I want to borrow him soo bad! Why can't that be ok?

This is what I've been told and I could never figure out what the fuck it meant.

After I stopped thinking about it I finally understood. Feelings are spawned from thoughts. My thoughts are usually flawed and based on make believe scenarios. These fantasies are typically based on my negative perception of self. The negative thoughts breed negative feelings. Since the exact nature of my thoughts are based on fantasy, the feelings that follow are as well.

If its fantasy, it's not real. If its not real, it's not true. If its not true, it's not honest.

I need to stop lying to myself with my thoughts so that I can feel honestly.

The weather has been excellent this week. It's finally warm enough and not-yet-so-humid that I'm able to leave the windows open all day and night. Earlier, I did some major spring cleaning and felt like shit about how much junk gradually accumulated in my apartment over winter. I never let it get bad enough to be categorized as trap-house-chic but leaving dishes in the sink overnight and leaving boxes on the floor because I'm too lazy to move them is just bad. Winter has that affect on me. I guess the pros call that Seasonal Affective Disorder, but I won't because I developed an acute allergy to mental bullshit after having been stupid/desperate enough to allow myself to be examined by a psychiatrist or two who were only too quick to pigeonhole me into the most convenient DSM category and push pills on me. That's rich, huh? You go to a mental doc hoping for some understanding only to find out they're exactly the same mentality as the rest of this fucked-up, on-demand society. No fucking patience for anything. That was years ago. I haven't subjected myself to a shrink since, and have been avoiding most medical professionals except for my dentist who I respect greatly for his work ethic, even though he gives off the vibe of someone who cheats on his wife with one of the pretty dental assistants. I noticed they stopped asking me if I've been flossing ever since I have been flossing daily. I guess it shows. Ah, but I'm rambling now.

So here I found myself today, taking a pensive walk around town. I am thankfully in no need of shrinks, after many years of journeying (mostly inwards, but a bit of outwards journeying too), I know fully who I am, who I want to be and [for the most part] what I want to get from life. It's still fun to have time to think, though. So I went for a walk and I thought, and in thinking I sudden came to the realization that I have no respect for any of the friends I have left. Thinking about it, I can't imagine they ever had respect for me. I certainly didn't respect myself, which is a major part of the reason I struggled so hard to push through setbacks in the past.

What to do now? I can't very well call them my friends if I don't respect them. Well, that's alright. I'm pretty good at alienating people. I didn't spend years in corporate for nothing, now I can be as ruthless as the best of 'em. I can give you some heartwarming bullshit farewell food-for-thought complete with a smile and handshake while steering you out the door with the other hand. Most people don't even realize what happened until they're halfway across the parking lot. What a dichotomy, to abhor a society that rewards that type of behaviour, and also revel in it because it gives me the only chance I get to really fuck with the people who support the status quo by consigning themselves to wage slavery to pay debts they took on to buy shit they don't need to impress people they don't care about, blah blah blah.

There was a panhandler walking through rush hour traffic on my way home. I was in my glorious shitbox, someone next to me was in a gaudy brand-new Benz SUV. Nine times out of ten when I look over, it's some bimbo trophy wife commanding these tank-envy monstrosities. I have too much respect for smart, accomplished women to assume they would ever squander their own cash on such a thing, so trophy wife is the conclusion I reach. Either way, it was the typical $80-120k extravagance ($65k buys you the bare chassis) that people with “more money than brains” love. I guess some people feel entitled to a $100k joyride with the heated leather seat that some nerd like me was suckered into programming to give the driver a shiatsu ass massage so their bum doesn't numb along the otherwise bum-numbingly long commute to work.

Of course, I don't even have a buck to give the guy (I rarely use cash), and if he came close enough I was ready to give him the ol' “look at my car, do I look like I even have a fuck to give?” spiel. No surprise, he loitered for a good minute next to the Benz holding out his cardboard sign. Guess who doesn't give a fuck? Not me, not the Benz bimbo, and even the panhandler looked like he really couldn't care less. We're all becoming victims of apathy. I read a great quote the other day:

The average age of the world's greatest civilisations from the beginning of history has been about 200 years. During those 200 years, these nations always progressed through the following sequence: From bondage to spiritual faith; From spiritual faith to great courage; From courage to liberty; From liberty to abundance; From abundance to selfishness; From selfishness to complacency; From complacency to apathy; From apathy to dependence; From dependence back into bondage.

Click to expand...

- Alexander Fraser Tytler, Lord Woodhouselee


I guess that guy knew what was up. We're past our best-before date and still haven't figured it out.

I finally remembered what my Facebook password is after forgetting it for, uh... years. I know I'm always going on about how I hate Facebook but yeah, I do actually have a profile. I've never actually posted anything to it and make it a point to remind anyone about to snap a photo of me that I will tear their spleen out through their smiling face if they dare tag me.

Nevertheless, I signed in, and felt confused right away at the new UI which seems to change as often as the seasons do. One thing that's obvious though is the activity log or wall or whatever the fuck they call it when someone posts some shit and it shows up in my feed. Seems like people I knew a decade ago are getting married. Great. We haven't spoken in ages; probably never will again.

I feel disgusted that I'm too curious about their lives to just oust these people from my Friends list. I'm not sure what that voice in my head is expecting, I mean these people are part of my past, but now they are fresh in my present mind as they are now not as I knew them. It made me think of the people I knew as kids, two decades ago; before Facebook and even before MySpace or Geocities. Part of me wonders how my closest friends in grade school have turned out, but a bigger part of me resists the urge to try and find them on Facebook because it would ruin the romance of the memories of them I harbour.

There's a chance friendships may be rekindled, sure, but there's a greater risk that my curiosity about the people I once cared about will be fulfilled and memories of old will be overwritten by the new reality. It's funny how time erodes our youthful innocence and our efforts to rebel against it and push the boundaries of our individuality recreate us every day as someone slightly different than the person we were yesterday. I'm sure that girl I watched disappear from the rear window of my dad's car when we moved away from the old neighbourhood has turned into a wonderful young woman, but to me the memory of that little girl standing in the street is more precious and important to the person I've become than the realities of her current existence could ever be.

So, fuck Facebook. I hope picture postcards will come back into vogue, so I can just mail people I care about an indelible memory before I set off on some new path in life and lose touch with them forever.

From wherever, with all my love, XoXo

I can't reply to you because your mailbox is full.

People say I glamorize it but they don’t know how it has made me feel; even if they do, it wouldn’t change a thing, because these filthy emotions are what millions of other people have felt.

Heroin is just another obsessed abuser in disguise; it comforts you when your guard is down and then causes you both physical and emotional torment when you attempt to leave. Kids in America grow up hearing about junkies and their sociopathic crime-filled life, but do any of them know until it’s too late that junkies were once vulnerable children too, coaxed in by black’s promise to free them from pain?

I am not defending my choices or those of my fellow addicts; morally, we went bankrupt, and that is for certain.

We have failed society by becoming the miscreants, but society also failed us.

People are uncomfortable with heroin. It disgusts them. They fear that one day their sons and daughters may become the junkies of tomorrow, but they often push the thought aside. “That day will never come. My loved one’s not a waster like those troubled stars I saw on TV, like those people I saw in the alley, like those shadow-eyed kids coming out of the detox center.”

When one son or daughter does become just that, heroin twists the family’s world around. Usually, the child either recovers (slim chance), the child becomes part of the prison system, or the child is found dead. Whichever way you swing it, heroin is horrific in its onslaught against the body and soul.

Does this mean that the addict is no longer a person? No. Does this make them an idiot? No; they simply made a very idiotic choice. As the forever-quoted Bible says in John 8:7, “Let he who is without sin cast the first stone.” You may claim that any sins you ever committed could not equate to trying heroin. Maybe one night you were a little buzzed and took your car out for a ride; perhaps one lovely morning at 14 you swiped your mother’s cigarette and have been buying packs ever since; just maybe, you have lied in your life, and you have sinned; you hungered for the body of another and waited by the phone for a lover like an addict in withdrawal.

Heroin addiction is complicated. No one wants it around. But it will never go away if we dismiss it as a drug for the doomed.

What have we done? Why have we allowed society to degrade in such a manner? Kids are abusing pharmaceuticals, heroin & meth. It's crazy depressing watching the generation I live in today slave to painkillers & stimulant abuse. "Oh Idk what they've been though", fuck the fuck off. Drugs are not an escape for your problems. Nobody cares what you been through. How you deal with your troubles determines your real strength. If you choose to use drugs to deal with your "anxiety problems, mood problems, tragedies, etc", how the hell do you expect to handle them from a realistic perspective? I'm writing this blog at the bottom of a mood swing right now, but I don't turn to puny pills to help me get through my depressive nature. I fucking endure. It's upsetting to see more & more people falling victim to their own emotions. They don't know how to overcome because they have been defeated by what they believe is much stronger than them.

You are weak, get the fuck up. Your life isn't harder than anyone elses. You believe to have the short end of the stick because it's so easy to feel sorry for yourself. We all have our shit to deal with, so don't let your misfortune affect others by your negative attitude.

What have I done? Why have I allowed myself to become so cold? So spiteful? I have been trying & trying to embrace my emotions. I haven't been able to rise above my shadow self. It haunts me everywhere I go, taunting me at every corner and confusing my path. It disguises itself as my desires but are they even my desires? What are they? What drives me to do what I am not proud of even doing? Is that even me? Am I still back where I started in my journey to search for who I am? If not, what is my progress? I've learned more and more about HR and have been taking calculated risks as life goes by but has the worst yet to come? Am I over the mountain and running to the flat plain? Or am I still trapped in a dark, mysterious hurdle? I've helped myself identify with my idea of happiness and purpose but implementing my own ideas are becoming increasingly difficult. Should I look for another outlet? The uncertainty can be a cause for my depression. I seem not not even know where I am. How do I identify with my true self? I am at a loss for words.


I can't seem to practise what I preach. I can't seem to defer from my old ways. My brain seems to exist as a bundle of ideas that are constantly recycling and changing my thought processes. I am becoming someone new almost every year. Is this good or bad? I have no one to talk to as no-one can fathom the complexity of my brain. At least, no-one I've already met. I guess it's true that only you can help yourself in this world and no-one else can. This is a lonely feeling and yet comforting at the same time. I seem to enjoy the heavy energy attached to my brain and it keeps me calm, or is it that there diazepam? My down attitude is the easiest for me to dwell in but what is so comforting about it? Why is it that the negatives in life seem to be the most significant to us humans? We claim to be all about happiness and positivity but how many of us let this show on our auras? The people that do are easily identifiable as "off the wall" or are easily envied.

This society claims to want to help each-other but no-one wishes to see anyone on top of themselves. This world has become such a dark place and finding light in a cave is usually self made. It has become clear to me that only the mindset that seeks to be happy will be happy and the other that want to be happy will forever be lost as it is always easy to want something but to go out and find it is what defines us and creates our character.

Tonight's just one of those nights.

It's Cinco de Mayo. Everyone on Tumblr is denigrating the very celebration of this holiday, because we white people couldn't understand it.

I skip past these complaints to the photos of needles and oreo cakes, dope and the sunrise.

I'm only 2 weeks single after 4 years of on-and-off bullshit with my pair of 2-year boyfriends. I'm starting to think my boyfriends' expiration dates will always be a solid 2 years. It's everyone's fault.

Honestly, I'm just wondering what the fuck's wrong with me, because after 2 years of possibly the worst relationship, during which I was threatened with death half the time, I'm already looking at other men and reverting to my teenage years of giggling at the cute ones.
I'm only 20, so maybe I can cut myself a bit of slack.

But there are the cute wannabe dealers:
the thugs with too many tattoos and a tendency towards retail theft.

Why do I always go for them?
Why do I always smoke with them?
I fucking hate them
But they're me, a part of me.
The part that wants to love something so glamorous and so false.

These men are just as dangerous as the drugs.

They're so kind
I'm using them
And they're fucking
Using
Me

I'm drunk. Can't you tell?

I'm high on heroin, can't you tell?

I have so much pain inside me
my blood will pour out
And the texture will always be BLACK TAR

Because I can't function without the absence of pain.
And without knowing that I belong.

It hurts
But I'm just a girl.

Well I have a job as a server. But I'm spending 60-80 dollars worth of heroin a day. So I am working to support my habit. I'm going to try and switch over to suboxone stommorow afternoon. I have Xanax and weed to help do it. I think I can for at least enough time to pay my debt off to the bank for 300 dollars. Then I'll be back to even.

I've been on a hell of a 3 month binge. My arms look like shit and I'm having a hell of a time registering shots. And even when I do I rears.y get very high so I'm basically on heroin maintenance. So I'm going to try and cut way back on the smack.

Increasingly, I've encountered women mischaracterizing masculinity.

One of the more common arguments is the idea that masculinity promotes the repression of emotions. This, of course, is incorrect. Masculinity merely suggests that a man master his emotions; control his emotions, so that he may not be ruled by them. Thus, he never collapses in tears or explodes with rage. At all times, a man must practice self-control, presenting a strong, but calm and kind outward appearance. I want there to be room for masculinity in the modern world, but increasingly, I see more and more women (feminists) expressing abject hatred of men, and even worse, other men agreeing with them.

I felt particularly saddened when I saw one of those placards held up for one of those 'I Need Feminism Because' photographs, and it said something like "I need feminism because, as a straight, white male, my opinions are less important than women, minorities and people of color, and I need to know that."

"Why would you think that way?" I wondered. Self-respect is also an important aspect of masculinity. Many men seem to end up working like dogs to provide for a family that considers them worthless and obsolete. We're disposable and expendable, really.

These sorts of thoughts began when I saw a brilliant scientist, Dr. Matt Taylor, reduced to tears on television because he'd worn a T-shirt that a female friend had fashioned for him. It had scantily-clad cartoon women on it, and that led to the internet exploding with faux-outrage. He was basically oppressing all women by wearing such a shirt, ignoring the fact that it was made specifically to congratulate him on landing a mechanical probe on a speeding comet. After witnessing his apology, I immediately wanted to vomit.

"How could anyone treat such a brilliant man this way?" I asked myself, indignation bubbling up.

I'll go into more detail with the next post. I haven't planned it out, but there are so many articles, videos and so-on that I'd like to at least mention, because it seems like misandry (a general hatred and mistrust of men) is becoming more and more common. Feminist propaganda has invaded many of the spaces I enjoy spending time online.

In hopes of keeping my sanity while waiting to see what would happen with Ariadne, I started participating in social activities in Paris. Mostly they are things I would never do in my right mind - going to parties, shows, parcs, dances, opera, picnics, wine tastings, museums, etc with groups of people. Remember that before coming to Paris, I had spent a year in a cabin alone and mostly off the grid. During that time, I never felt lonely. Overall, I hated/dreaded being around people so much that sometimes I went out of my way to avoid people, and I usually told visitors to please go away. All I had to do was think of the awful American girlfriends, including the last one Alyssa, I had in case I ever started to feel lonely. (In hindsight, the only relationships that didn't end badly were with foreign, English not the first language, girlfriends while in the US. maybe there is a pattern here.)

To my surprise, by the end of my first week in Paris I felt horribly lonely. No gf, no friends - I usually dont care about those things - People suck and i try to avoid them.

Learning French has opened a whole new world for me. While doing these social things in Paris, I have met lots of women. I don’t even have to pursue them, they approach me, get my attention, and initiate the conversation. They don't seem to be bothered by my bad french. I'm obviously a foreigner, but they seem to think I'm Scottish until I correct them.

It is the opposite of situation with the American Woman. On her home turf, the American Woman seems to take more pleasure in rejecting any man who approaches her at a bar or any social venue than she gets from being in the acutal company of a man. It doesn’t matter how high or low quality he is compared to her - his looks, intentions, level of education, employment, fitness do not matter. (Here, however, American women don't seem to act like that. ) I've never "hit on" an American woman, but I've seen them in action and read and heard about it enough.

Now I began seeing several women at once while I was waiting for Ariadne to make up her mind. This was completely unexpected. In the US, American Women despise me. The would look at me and wrinkle their faces like they just stepped in dog shit. Keep in mind that I have never in my life asked out an American Woman. I have always avoided eye contact with them, I have never "checked them out," leered, objectified them, or shown them the slightest interest. Basically, I have been completely indifferent to them. At the same time, American Women (complete strangers I never saw before and had no interest in) have accosted me in the US and told me they had boy friends or husbands. It's like they wanted me to hit on them so they could reject me. I wasn't hitting on them or even glancing or making eye contact and was never going to, so they, complete strangers, would approach me and tell me I couldn't have them. Pre-mature rejection or something.

None of my new secret girlfriends speaks English, none know about any of the others, and they are all low maintenance. None has my keys, and not using social media helps. Although I did not encourage them and would lie and say I have a gf in the US and tell them Im not looking for a girlfriend, two of them, Malala and Enid have become very attached to me. That's bad. Other than that, they aren't serious.

Now that things are working out so far with Ariadne, I need to extricate myself from those other relationships without hurting anybody’s feelings. Most people have learned to deal with this by the time the finish high school or college, but I've never been in this situation before. Now I have let things go to far and I feel like I'm in over my head. On top of that, I'm addicted to morphine, and i think the morphine might have impaired my judgement and contributed to my getting into this.

Work-in-progress. This article attempts to address the confusion regarding the different chemicals found in morning glory seeds. Click here to see a list of the different chemicals found in morning glory seeds.

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Bruce Eisner: Well, people could say the same thing about LSD, they could say there’s sassafras and there’s nutmeg in nature, and there is morning glories and ergot in nature, but you have to do the chemistry in order to make something that’s effective.

Owsley: No, that’s not true. Ergot contains many natural, highly psychedelic alkaloids. Iso-ergine is one of them, hydroxyethyl-lysergamide* is another one, and in fact, is considered nearly identical to LSD in effect. Albert Hoffman told me so himself. They believe that it was this derivative contained in extracts of c.paspalum that was used in the Eleusian Mysteries.

Eisner, Bruce. "Interview with an Alchemist: Bear Owsley Interview." Bruce Eisner's Writings DOWNLOAD
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Original article says hydroxy-methyl-lysergamide in place of hydroxyethyl-lysergamide. The latter is obviously a type-o of the former. Hydroxyethyl-lysergamide is a synonym of lysergic acid hydroxyethylamide:

lysergic acid alpha-hydroxyethylamide
lysergic acid methyl carbinolamide
N-(alpha-Hydroxyethyl)lysergamide
(S)-9,10-Didehydro-N-(1-hydroxyethyl)-6-methylergoline-8beta-carboxamide
Ergoline-8-carboxamide, 9,10-didehydro-N-(1-hydroxyethyl)-6-methyl-, (8-beta)-
Lysergamide, N-(1-hydroxyethyl)- (7CI)
(8beta)-N-(1-hydroxyethyl)-6-methyl-9,10-didehydroergoline-8-carboxamide

Source: http://www.guidechem.com/reference/dic-628998.html


There are other minor issues with the above quote. Why did Owsley reference isoergine, but not ergine? Nichols says the iso epimers of lysergamides are generally inactive.[1] And "many natural, highly psychedelic alakloids?" More like one or two. Ergonovine has been found to be psychedelic,[2][3] but Bigwood et al (ref. # 3) found that unnaturally high doses were needed to achieve good effects. I think a typical ergot or morning glory seeds preparation contains pretty low numbers of ergonovine; I still need to do calculations on the chemical analyses to see... Off the bat, I can say that Hofmann says this: "We were able to isolate the active principles responsible for the effect of these seeds and I was quite astonished to find out that these seeds contained as the active principles monoamide and hydroxyethylamide of lysergic acid and a bit of ergonovine."[4]


Gröger 1963[5] found lysergic acid hydroxyethylamide ("LAH") to be in greater quantity than ergine. Other analyses have found LAH to be in only small amounts. This could indicate LAH quickly decomposes simply when sitting in morning glory seeds; fresh seeds may only contain significant quantities of LAH. A web search will show that there is a rumor that only fresh morning glory seeds are truly psychedelic.

One issue with lysergic acid hydroxyethylamide is that it may simply convert to ergine in the body.[6][7][8][9][10] One Peter Webster pointed out at the 2006 LSD Symposium that ergine is unique in that it exists in three different forms.[11] He feels that only an equilibrium of the three different forms of ergine produce maximal psychedelic effects. wesbter doesn't acknowledge the presence of LAH, but I will add to his hypothesis that if lysergic acid hydroxyethylamide decomoses in the body, the ergine(s) that arise as such may be different than the ergine(s) found in a batch of seeds in which the LAH had decomposed.

This is a list of all the ergoline alkaloids that have been found in morning glory seeds. Note that many of these have only been found in small amounts.

chanoclavine-I
chanoclavine-II
rac. chanoclavine-II
agroclavine
festuclavine
dihydrolysergol-I (α-dihydrolysergol)
elymoclavine
lysergol
isolysergol
setoclavine
isosetoclavine
penniclavine
molliclavine
ergine
lysergic acid α-hydroxyethylamide
ergonovine
ergosine

Source: Solanaceae and Convolvulaceae: Secondary Metabolites: Biosynthesis, Chemotaxonomy, Biological and Economics Significance (a Handbook). Eckart Eich. 2008. pp. 241–245.[12]
These pages present tables showing all known ergoline-containing morning glory plants and all known ergolines contained in said plants. This selection can be downloaded here.


Chanoclavine is a prominent alkaloid found in these seeds, however Peter Webster has criticized its capability of being a contributor to the activity of these seeds:

Even the seldom faulted Merck Index lists chanoclavine as a possible active principle of ololiuhqui, a lysergic acid related alkaloid present in minor quantities in some samples of ololiuhqui and ergot as well, although no reports of its psychoactive nature have ever been reported. And indeed, if we believe the testimony of those who have told us how the Central American shamans prepare ololiuhqui, namely by cold water extraction of finely powdered seeds, then chanoclavine must be ruled out as it is almost totally insoluble in water. Chanoclavine is not even an amide. Nor has anyone shown any other chemical species in ololiuhqui to be suitably psychoactive.[12]

Shroomery member, i_was_the_walrus commented on the above quote:

And I really doubt chanoclavine would be active. Of all the 4 isomers of LSD, only 1 is active. It seems to rely quite heavily on the optical specificity. With chanoclavine, the carbon (8 on LSD) is unsaturated and achiral. If it has any biological activity, I'm betting it would be well into the milligram range. (Mar. 22, 2015)[13]

End for now.



1. 2006 LSD Symposium. See quote here: http://www.bluelight.org/vb/entries...er-Webster-at-the-2006-LSD-Symposium-(ergine)

2. Albert Hofmann in The Road to Eleusis: Unveiling the Secret of the Mysteries. R. G. Wasson, Albert Hofmann, and Carl A. P. Ruck, 1978. DOWNLOAD

See bottom of first column on page 10.


3. Entheogenic Effects of Ergonovine. Jeremy Bigwood, Jonathan Ott, Catherine Thompson, Patricia Neely. The Journal of Psychedelic Drugs, 11(1-2), Jan-Jun. 1979. DOWNLOAD

4. Stanislav Grof Interviews Dr. Albert Hofmann (1984). MAPS Bulletin 9.2 (Fall 2001): 22–35. http://www.maps.org/news-letters/v11n2/11222gro.html

5. Gröger D. Über das Vorkommen von Ergolinderivaten in Ipomoea-Arten. Flora 153:373-382. 1963. DOWNLOAD



NOTE: Lysergic acid carbinolamide is a synonym for lysergic acid hydroxyethylamide (see GuideChem reference at top of message).


6. easily decomposes in a weak acid solution to form ergine and acetaldehyde.
Stoll, A. and Hofmann, A. (1965) The ergot alkaloids. Located in R.H.F. Manske (ed.), The Alkaloids, Vol. VIII, Academic Press, New York, Chap. 21, p. 747
NOTE: ergine is a synonym for lysergic acid amide.

7. ready cleavage under hot aqueous conditions, yielding D-lysergamide and acetaldehyde.
N. Castagnoli, jun., K. Corbett, E.B. Chain, and R. Thomas, (1970) Biosynthesis of N-(a-Hydroxyethyl)lysergamide, a Metabolite of Claviceps paspali, Biochem. J., 117, 451
Note: lysergamide is a synonym for lysergic acid amide.

8. The α-hydroxyethylamide spontaneously decomposes to lysergic acid amide, and the naturally-occurring amide may arise by this process.
Heinz G. Floss & John A. Anderson. 'Biosynthesis of Ergot Toxins' (1980) in The Biosynthesis of Mycotoxins (Pieter S. Steyn, ed.), Elsevier, p. 21 (2012)

9. this material is quite unstable and is easily converted in the process of isolation.
TiHKAL (part 1). Alexander Shulgin. 1997. P. 313

10. These compounds,* although well documented as components in the Convolvulaceae, are possibly lost in several of the analyses of alkaloid composition. They are extremely unstable, and are very readily degraded into acetaldehyde and the corresponding amide, ergine or isoergine. In these instances their presence will be measured only by the elevated levels of the derived amides.
Alexander Shulgin. Psychopharmacological Agents, Vol. 4 (ed. Maxwell Gordon), Elsevier, Dec 2, 2012
*lysergic acid hydroxyethylamide & isolysergic acid hydroxyethylamide

11. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NJS25nEcdZg

12. Solanaceae and Convolvulaceae: Secondary Metabolites: Biosynthesis, Chemotaxonomy, Biological and Economics Significance (a Handbook). Eckart Eich. 2008. pp. 241–245.

13. Sacred Mushrooms of the Goddess and the Secrets of Eleusis. Carl A.P. Ruck (editor). 2006. pp. 178–179.

NOTE: The above publication contains a transcription of Webster's speech at the 2006 LSD symposum (reference #11).

14. Shroomery member, i_was_the_walrus. Personal correspondence. Mar. 22, 2015.

In this part of the world where I am staying the drug "syabu" is very popular. Has anyone had any experience taking this drug and how does it make one feel after taking it?. I read that the most common way to take it is by lighting it up.in a glass and inhaling the smoke.

Although the pharmacology of isoergine (and even ergine itself) is not well studied, in other lysergic acid amides the iso epimers are generally inactive, at least when compared to the normal amides. Therefore, I still believe that ergine must be the species active at the receptor, but if the ergine/isoergine equilibration can occur at body pH and temp, then ergine could be generated in the brain from isoergine. This may be a key point, and you should go back and look at the Tetrahedron paper where they apparently did some kinetics on the process.

Thus, I think that isoergine would lack pharmacological effects. But… there is another factor to consider. Absorption and partitioning through the body and into the brain only occurs with the unprotonated forms of alkaloids. That is, ergine is an alkaloid that will be protonated, or charged, at body pH. As such, before it can be absorbed from the gut or cross into the brain, it must lose its charge, or give up its proton. In the uncharged form it will readily cross into the brain, but this fraction is relatively small, perhaps only a few percent of the total.

Because of the ability of the amide of the D-ring of isoergine to form a stabilizing hydrogen bond to the amine nitrogen, it can deprotonate very easily at body pH, giving a neutral species that will have a very high lipid solubility. The intramolecular hydrogen compensates for the energy cost of deprotonation and desolvation. Using semiempirical methods, I calculated the length of this hydrogen bond to be about 2.65 Angstroms. Somewhat long, but reasonable. The work you cite in Tetrahedron could be used for parallel discussion, but I don't have the paper here. The consequence of the hydrogen bond is that isoergine will be absorbed much more readily than ergine, and will penetrate the brain to a greater extent than ergine. Once inside the brain, however, facile epimerization of isoergine will lead back to an equilibrium that contains ergine, which is most likely the form of the molecule that I believe is active at the receptor. Importantly, however, I think the concentration of ergine could be much higher than if ergine itself was taken, IF epimerization of isoergine back to ergine can occur at physiological conditions. Thus, at the brain receptor where ergine acts, a much higher concentration will be achieved than if ergine had been administered originally. If isoergine did have significant pharmacological activity, something which I doubt, but without evidence, it could be there in pretty high concentration, compared to what would be there after pure ergine administration. So, the question is: if isoergine is placed in pH 7.4 at 37 degrees C, will a significant amount of ergine arise by epimerization in a reasonable amount of time?

This process is completely analogous to the proposal by G.P. Migliaccio, T.-L.N. Shieh, S.R. Byrn, B.A. Hathaway and D.E. Nichols, "Comparison of Solution Conformational Preferences for the Hallucinogens Bufotenin and Psilocin using 360 MHz Proton NMR Spectroscopy";, J. Med. Chem. 24, 206-209 (1981) to explain the high lipid solubility of psilocin, compared to bufotenin. In that paper, the authors proposed that an intramolecular hydrogen bond forms between the 4-hydroxy group of psilocin and the side chain amino group, providing enhanced penetration into the brain. Similarly, in isoergine, the hydrogen bond between the amide hydrogen and the unprotonated basic amine provides a very lipid-soluble, neutral substance that can easily be absorbed and penetrate into the brain. In pharmaceutical terms, we could consider that the "bioavailability" of isoergine would be much higher than that of ergine, following oral administration.

David Nichols - LSD Symposium transcripts? Posted here.

For some reason, I have this on a piece of paper.

30.04.2005: Joined Bluelight
21.04.2006: Mod of New Member Introductions
03.01.2007: Mod of EADD
17.04.2007: Left staff of EADD
05.11.2007: Left Staff of NMI
06.11.2007: Mod of Support
01.12.2007: Senior Mod (Support)
09.04.2009: Administrator
25.04.2011: Bluelight Crew
10.01.2012: Administrator
23.03.2012: Bluelight Crew

Metro continued

Just before the subway entrance sits a teenaged girl, her head bowed in grief, her hair dangling confused and greasy, her arms holding her knees. In her lap, asleep, is a baby. It's wrapped in a soiled blanket. She sits on the dirty sidewalk, and next to her is a paper cup. In that little cup people drop money.

"Madonna with child" - as I wait for my assistant to arrive, many people passing give her money. They're doing the "Right Thing," helping people less fortunate. Many look emotionally relieved as they make their offerings, like they have been given a blessing. They're nice people unlike me or you. They will give the needy the shirts off their backs.

I've passed by the beggar girl for a month. I did not give her money. The operation is a scam. Every thing about her has been carefully engineered to arouse sympathy, guilt, and maybe even shame in the casual passer-by. In other words, she is a Mendicant, a highly skilled professional beggar. I know dozens like her by sight. It is interesting to watch them in action. They always wear the same dirty, ragged clothes. They always have body odor. They hold out a paper cup that only has a few copper coins on the bottom. People are always giving them money. And food, even to the fat beggars, and many are very fat, but people don't have common sense. This isn't Ethiopia in a famine.

Sometimes this particular girl has a baby. Sometimes a different older baby. Sometimes toddlers are with her. There are many more beggars like her. It seems like there is a child-beggar (who would normally be in high school or college ) on every street corner in the touristic areas.

There have been reports and criminal investigations into this. Picture Hell's Angels but with slavery and child abuse. The beggar business is operated by gangs who own luxery properties and expensive cars in Romania. The babies serve as props. A link has been reported between child trafficking and child begging. There are reports of child mutilation for the purpose of pity donations.

One man controls a large number of beggars in an area. He assigns each one a busy spot to work. He makes his rounds, collecting their earnings several times per day, and handing them their lunch, snacks, supper, etc.

I've watched them work - the child beggars working alone and women with or without a real baby (sometiems it's a fake baby, or if it's a real child, they rent babies by the day for this purpose, the baby appears to me to be unnaturally sleepy - reportedly drugged with heroin or fed cough syrup. Some are very aggressive and follow, push, and grab people (I assume as a ruse to distract them so they can pick pocket them, but I haven't actually seen them stick their hand in somebody's pocket. However, 1000s of people report being pickpocketed here each year).

Not only that, but when they are on a break from their begging, I have watched them brazenly steal things from shops.

I notice the beggar girl keeps emptying the cup into her pockets so only a few copper pieces are on the bottom for display. Although it was late morning and not so busy, within the 15 minutes I waited, about 20 people gave her money. Most were coins and some were cash. The smallest denomination of the Euro is a €5 note. So, she earned a minimum of 20€ in 15 minutes. And this is during a slow period after the morning rush hour and before the lunch rush. You can do the math. If she sits there long enough, all day, every day, and she does.....

Finally, my assistant Claudia arrives and we walk passed the beggar girl. She rattles the cup at us, " Please Monsier, My baby is hungry. Please..." Her voice trails away as we approach the stairs leading into the underground network of tunnels, trains, and rooms that make up the Metro. Somewhere down there, it connects to sewers, crypts, quarries, basements, caves, and catacombs. 6.1 million people ride the Metro each day. Paris has a population of more than 12 million people.

My boss asked me if Id every taken one before. I said, "a few times in San Francisco." San Fran has its own subway (BART).(, train, trolley, and bus systems but I've used them only a few times during emergencies). I might have written about one of those times on here a few years ago.

At the top of the stairs, I hesitated, breathing in what might be my last breath of fresh air for a long time. I usually walk or take a bicycle. My boss and Claudia walked down first. Dozens of people were going in and out. I finally felt hyperventilated and held a long deep breath and made a few hesitant steps down and was blassted by a stream of wet air. I cheated and sniffed a little without inhaling. It smelled like a melange of arm pits, strong perfume, crotches, cigarette smoke, shit, the chemical odors of scented soaps and body wash, and laundry detergent, rancid piss, puke. And it was so hot that it amplified the stench. I could see and feel the swarming clouds of airborne microorganisms germs and specks of filth getting into my lungs. Or maybe they were the black spots from oxygen deprivation.

I followed them down the stairs.

Upon Waking

(It comes in softly, like morning light bleeding through a thin curtain, like night a pale lavender stain spreading into the sky, more perception than sight. And like illumination, or darkness, the world transforms around me but I feel heavy and unmovable. Maybe this is depression. I call it sadness because I want to cry and sometimes manage to. Sadness implies something contained within but this feels bigger, a vast wilderness. I find myself yearning for Ecuador.)



Memory: There is a bus on a winding mountain highway. I’m inside it, expected to get off because I rang the bell. Yesterday I must have bought a ticket, made this much of a plan. No one says a word—neither the bemused driver nor the sleepy passengers., No one asks where I am going, why I wanted to get off this far from town, no one obvious out there to greet me. Just me stepping off into the empty world with a few irrelevant belongings.

I want to sit down so I do. The bus heaves back out onto the black road, growing smaller like a leaf floating off down a river. Now it is just me and a dry wind. A huge sob wells up in me but at least there is no movie playing in my head. The sob seems completely unattached to anything and it floats off and now I am just sitting again. I couldn’t think if I wanted to and that is a relief.

I want to take my sandals off and let my feet touch the dust. I occupy a good amount of time picking lint out of the Velcro straps and then a few stray fears start buzzing around my head like gnats. Why did I get off the bus? What if the town is farther than I thought? What if it gets dark? What if someone is watching me?

I remember reading about Anne Frank’s father, how he and two of the Dutch helpers were the only ones to survive; how he didn’t know that yet when he returned to the city hoping to find at least his daughters. How do you go on into such ruin? Will I always live in this shattered world now? Will darkness and light keep up their incessant conversation around me as if I am not here?

Something is keeping me alive. I don’t have thoughts of death, only exhaustion. I feel like I have to keep moving every day in order to not succumb to this fatigue. I wonder what it would be like to have someone say, “I will take care of you. You can lie down as long as you want. You never have to get up again if you don’t want to.” That fantasy gives me a lot of comfort. I am probably just here to pretend that I can have that. No expectations. No responsibilities. No need to think or act. Just feel. Blessed land of pilgrimage, my heart trudging beside me like a burro, shouldering all the burden without complaint. Buying random bus tickets with my dwindling money, finding a bed, washing my underwear in sinks. Exquisite little happiness to find it dry in the morning.

If you would care to take a listen...

Lead You On is an incredibly intense song about the fuckshit misery life that = heroin addiction.

"But my life has passed another year,

Why the FUCK is you in it?"

Every time I play this song at the parties, my drug family joins in, and we all sing it together with varying degrees of emotion. We just can't help but sing along; it's our anthem. One person occasionally starts crying. Spits out angry verses.

Music holds power over us all. It has the ability to make us regret what we've done, and what we're doing...

I still fucking hate myself when I hear this song. But I always turn the volume up.

The hungry baby scam is vary common. Today in Europe, the Mendicant's Guild (probably not the real name, but what I will call Gypsie-run criminal organizations. Picture the Hell's Angels but with slavery and child abuse) actually rents out babies by the day as props for professional beggars. They are kept drugged on cough syrup or heroin to make them lie still and not cry for the duration of the beggar's work shift. The best beggars typically earn €1000 or more per day doing this. I am not making this up. I mean, even I have seen the scam first hand.

That reminded me of this one time in South America, this scrawny emaciated girl accosted me in Spanish and asked for money for her baby. She said her baby was hongry. The beggar woman was skin and bones herself. She stood around 5 feet tall and looked like she'd been in a concentration camp with her sunken eyes, hollow cheeks, etc. She couldn't weigh more than 50 pounds. She said she was 18 years old, looking at her, I knew she had some kind of problem. I was in a poor country, after all, where there is no social safety net. People really starve to death there. I didn't really believe that she was skinny for lack of money, but I was curious to find out.

I went into a mercado-mart grocery store and bought her a carton of milk and some bread or somethign for her. The next morning, I saw her begging outside of the hostel where I was staying. I asked about her baby, and she said "What? oh yeah, he is OK, come to my house and i will show you." This was all in Spanish, and I had learned Spanish on the fly - I had memorized a list of words and phrases on the airplane that took me there. So basically, I was doing a lot of guessing. Anyway, she looked very happy to see me, smiling and wide eyed. Her whole body vibrated with enthusiasm. Even the extreme dilation of her pupils suggested excitement. She grabbed me by the hand, and very excitedly led me to her house about 100 yards away down an alley. It was actually a motel rooM. I asked about the baby, and she pulled out a bag of cocaine.

In college, I used to enjoy injecting cocaine and even liked to mix it with heroin, but since college, I limit my cocaine use to once a year out of caution and I've lost interest. Heavy use is hard on the body. That and a lot of people seem to let it ruin their lives.

We started doing lines. That was the most pure yayo as she was calling it (Spanish for cocaine) I have ever had. Then she pulled off her shirt. In college, this guy I sometimes shot coke with used to take his pants off after his first shot. No idea why, but it didn't seem sexual. Without a shirt, her body was shockingly emaciated. Her body was like sticks held together with tight skin. I could see the ribs, arm bones, and everything else. Her stomach was sunken concave, and she had the chest of a five year old boy. Not my thing, but we kept doing coke.

We must have done a gram each within a few minutes, and I couldn't feel my face. My tongue was so numb from the drip, i could barely speak. Then this behemoth of a woman waddles out of the bath room and starts talking about prices. She was so fat taht I had a good idea who really ate the food I had bought the night before.

The coke is $20 a gram. The skeletal girl is $50. Then she makes me a cup of coffee. I took a sip. I really didn't want coffee after that coke, but i drink coffee every day and it's a habit so I took a sip. If it's in front of me, i drink it even if I don't crave it. Kind of like cocaine.

Why would somebody make you a cup of coffee when you already have cocaine? She seemed kind of eager that I drink it. I had heard the urban legend about the tourist who goes to a bar in Tiajuana or someplace in Mexico. He meets some friendly people who offer him drinks and get him drunk. Then he blacks out. He wakes up the next day in a bath tub full of ice with note pinned to his chest saying that he needs to go to a hospital because his kidney has been removed. Maybe it was only cocaine induced paranoia, but I jumped up and ran out the door. Skeleton Girl and Jaba the Slut ran outside after me and said she needed money for food for her baby and pay for the coke, etc

I didn't tell that story to my boss, but I said I would be careful. The morning air was chilly but fresh and clean from the rain. We arrived at Metro Luxembourg gate. The entrance is a big downward staircase beyond an open gate on the side walk. Above the gate is a wrought iron sign lettered METRO. The style of the lettering, all of this, looked very sinister. The script looked the same as that of Arbeit Macht Frei, the sign above the gate that leads into Dachau concentration camp. Or maybe Gateway to Hell would have been more appropriate.

I am writing while at least partially sober for the first time in weeks. This past month has been spent silently screaming at my constant waterfall of druggie debt. When you’re a heroin addict, -$250 in your bank account and no food on the table for a few nights seem like a necessary, damning part of life. I could say I’m done with it, but I’ve said it a thousand times and lit the foil up with no face of remorse half an hour later. I keep thinking that if I keep saying it, it might just come true, and I tell myself that it is not me walking to the gas station for more cash back that I don’t actually have; it is heroin. I also say to myself that I am not the one making the daily trek from convenience store to dealer’s house; that’s the heroin talking.

I write this as a cheap little weed pipe sits next to my computer, almost staring at me, asking me why it’s not accompanied by the $50 black tar bag from the night before last. I know it’s an inanimate object, but I feel that even this mediocre glass piece is judging me for going through a half gram of heroin in less than two days.

Crumpled foil and cached heroin remain on the coffee table. There is residue on all the baggies in my trash can, but I will not dig through the pathetic trenches of what should only be “normal person” banana peels and frozen dinner boxes. Dirty straws, leftover shooting supplies from my needle-loving cohorts, foil with black stains and soot and empty lighters; these comprise my trash collection, tucked neatly among the legal waste.

Listen to me; I’m talking about my trash can.

“Just one time!” Mr. Junkie Acquaintance throws a needle at me. His name is Tony. If he thinks a hit is shit, he’ll say so; “that dude sells the bunkiest of the bunk black, man.” Admittedly, for weeks I could not figure it if “bunk” was supposed to be bad or good. I didn’t waste too much time trying to get the meaning; Tony shot up every substance he found if someone told him it MIGHT be heroin. I’ve been seeing him a lot more lately. When I was buying my $50 bag a couple days ago, he was there trying to convince my dealer/part-time frenemy to trade an expensive stolen camera for a gram of the blackest drug.

“This camera’s worth $500, man. Look at how clear the pictures come out.”

The dealer in question, I’ll call him Donnie, decided to test that claim by taking a few pictures of himself, Tony and me. “Ooooh!!! This is nice!” Donnie said gleefully. Contrary to society lore, dealers are often not the smartest nor the most charismatic; many are simply the most addicted to their drug of choice.

Donnie didn’t take the camera. “I’m not made of black, dude; I’m sorry, but I’m going to bed now, and you’re going to have to go out the back door.” He then gave Tony a few farewell smokes off his tray and banished him to the outside world of No More Drugs.

After Tony left, Donnie turned to his video game console and continued his obsessive quest to be the best alien soldier in America. I took a few hits and then gazed at the dumb television screen. He shared some meth with me as well, so we got really excited and then he talked me into eating pasta with a side of salty chips. Sometimes I wish druggie life could be this easy all the time.

I remember when Donnie tried to pummel me, I remember the time he stalked me home, and I certainly recall his bouts of paranoia that make it hard for anyone to really be friends with him. But he gets at least five visitors a day: sometimes ten, sometimes twenty. They all say they’re his “friends.” I can see that they are not. They want the drugs that hide in the locked room upstairs, and they will do anything to get them.

“Just once! Just one time!” Tony’s teasing stuck in my mind. I recalled that he was there when I attempted to shoot up for the first time with a dirty needle. Only, I was told that I had horrible veins and that it would be a waste even trying on my arms or legs or feet. Whatever. Tony can make fun of me all he wants; he likes to do that. At least I don’t steal cameras and iPods from my rich parents’ cars, pretending to care about them all while snatching another tool for drug collateral. Tony does that, and sometimes I think he’s proud of it. Junkie with a lifeline, junkie with a bloodline, junkie with a direct line to the beyond-prized heroin heaven: valuables. MONEY.

But meh, wouldn't I do the same thing? Probably not.

I recently decided to come back to Bluelight, as my curiosity had been piqued by a number of new research chemicals being offered by vendors across the 'net.

When I signed back in, I didn't expect to receive any messages from people I used to speak to. There are a great number of people here on Bluelight whose company I thoroughly enjoyed, back when I was shoveling benzodiazepines, opiates and alcohol into my bloodstream each day, in as large amounts as I could find.

Still, life has changed a lot in the past five years. I don't think I've changed much, but circumstances have - some for better, some for worse. So, I'd like to hang around and contribute whenever I can, though I don't have much free time.

For one, I've been feeling very tired lately, and wanted to read more about modafinil, which, according to Wikipedia, is a "wakefulness-promoting agent" that lacks the unpleasant body-load of amphetamines. This would be great for work, as both time and energy are limited. On the other hand, self-medication started me off down the very-short road to addiction, so I'm apprehensive. There are differences: my experience, and the fact that I've never liked stimulants.

Coming here brings back memories. I still miss wesmdow from time to time. I've found that friendships are more difficult to cultivate as you grow older, and it's partly because experience with poor friends raises your standards.

None of me makes sense when I am sad.

When I am feeling.

Perhaps that is why I can barely do my job.

Maybe if I ripped my cute fucking eyes out of their sockets, they would see the hideousness and pain inside, more than they already do, until everyone finally leaves me alone due to the grotesque appearance that would match my insane little spirit.

I looked towards the light once with actual hope; is that not funny? I smiled at the simple beauty of our world, only to find out that beauty was not meant for me. The loneliness cripples the heart while running away takes up all my body’s precious time.

At least for me. That’s the way it has always been.

I look at all the girls passing by, and I try to smile at them, and I want to talk to them, and I look at the boys, and I want to do so much more. But every time I fall in love, the hate and lust take over until nothing is left but a memory of the one I left behind.

Or, the one who left me behind.

Perhaps both.

I am chaos; only, I am not the important kind. Not the type that rips through the world like a tsunami; more so like a feral cat ready to shriek at any human who dares to take a glance.

People dress up and go to their house of worship on the weekend to be told stories of the son of God who came to the earth to teach humans how to be better to each other. Is it any wonder we're so pitiful when it's been hammered into our heads that only people who can rise from the dead are truly capable of being decent?