Kandy K
Ex-Bluelighter
C12H22O11. It is a product many of us have been exposed to since childbirth, yet users take its psychoactive, stimulant powers for granted. And up until recently I have too, until I discovered how wonderful it is a mind-altering substance.
C12H22O11. Common slang: Sucrose, Table Sugar, Sugar, Sweets, Candy.
My first experience with sucrose was also the first time I ever succumbed to peer pressure. I was in 6th grade Conceptual Physics class (hey hey, I know it ain’t the real physics okay, I took THAT in 9th grade), and two other boys were crushing up Smarties in class and snorting them. They groaned on about how badly it burned, and passed the baggie over to me.
“Here fag, snort this,” one of them instructed.
Without blinking, I said, “Okay.” Being a brain-washed kid and desiring to be a part of the popular crowd, I figured, what harm could possibly come out of snorting a little candy?
I don’t remember getting high then, but maybe that was because I only snorted about 1-2 of them, so I’m assuming the dosage was not high enough. Still, it awarded me popularity points, so that alone already filled all the broken whiskey dreams of my life.
The first instance I can remember getting an uppity feeling from eating sugar was last summer, when I was already little tipsy from a few beers with friends. I had smoked a little (read: a lot) of weed back at my house and had gotten a bad case of the munchies, so I had eaten maybe a couple (read: half a box of) chocolate chip cookies, a scoop (read: a pint-sized portion) of Ben & Jerry’s mint chip ice cream, and a piece of fruit (read: four cherry and blueberry flavored Tootsie Pops). Normally, when I smoke pot, I become tremendously lethargic, and unwilling to participate in physical activities that require strenuous work of the muscle.
Instead, I was unusually hyperactive and even requested my friend Kathy to take me to Tim’s house. Tim was her co-worker that had been acting rude to her at work lately, so she refused at first. But I begged and pleading, insisting that “it would be funny” if we just showed up, and out of annoyance she complied. The entire car ride she kept asking why I wanted to see her co-worker that I had only met a couple times before, and my only response was to giggle like a manic like and tell her it was a secret and a SURPRISE!
She pulled into a nice, quiet neighborhood and stopped the car a couple houses away, turning off her headlights. “I’m not parking next to his driveway.”
I asked her what car he drives, and she pointed to the white, Ford truck that lay ahead a couple houses. Without further ado, I scurried out to his car, and peeped around me for any bystanders.
Then, being the crazy drunk that I am, pulled down my pants and took a piss on the side of his car. I was on my heaviest day of the rag, so I was kind enough to pull out my bloody, used, dirty tampon and leave it on his hood as an added bonus. Kathy enjoyed the little present so much, she promptly took a picture.
The lesson to be learned here, kids, is: DON’T MESS WITH THE MISTRESS!
Almost one year passed before I gave a high dose of sucrose another try. I had bought some Country Time Strawberry Lemonade powder in bulk—1lb and 2oz to be exact. I consumed roughly an ounce of the stuff (for no reason what-so-ever other than “it tasted good” while coming down off the first methamphetamine and cocaine combo that went awry. I wasn’t expecting to achieve any sort of high at all, till it happened.
If you buy in bulk, it’s cheaper!
My friend was telling a story, when out of nowhere I burst out in this inane cackle, for no apparent reason. Not only did it bring back the cracked-out cocaine high a little, it also brought out a heavily exaggerated feeling of joy and motivation to make others laugh. The phone rang, and I answered the phone in a well-versed British accent with a sly, sneaky, “Hello Dr. Evil,” and promptly hung up.
My friend shrieked out a, “What the fuck!!!” and presumed laughing till her sides hurt. In the meantime, I was bouncing off the walls, jabbering about nonsensical material. Among one of them was asking her the eternal philosophical question that had been plaguing mankind for centuries: “Would you cry for Argentina?” I then started rapping the lyrics to “Get Low” by Lil Jon& The Eastside Boyz, & the Ying Yang Twins. The mystery however, was figuring out how I had remembered these lyrics and was able to recite them by heart, bearing in mind I wasn’t a rap fan.
The high went away after 15 minutes, but let me tell you, it was more intense than coke or meth, PUT TOGETHER. Even my shocked friend noted that she had never seen me that twacked out in her life, even on uppers like cocaine or methamphetamines. With energy like that, I was hooked. Within two days, I had eaten through an entire pound of Country Time Lemonade. I ate most of the powder straight for intensity, seeing as how only pussies weaken the high by mixing it with water.
That day, I spoke to a meth dealer named Jack about my new drug of choice. He tried to convince me I was an addict, constantly fiending for that next sugar high.
“I’m not an addict!” I argued back with an assertive flare.
“Are you trying to convince me, or YOURSELF?” He refuted. He had made his point clear.
When I suggested to my other friends about replacing their daily meth use with chronic sugar intake, they were abhorred. My insanity had been confirmed.
“That stuff will rot your teeth faster than a pizzo loaded with rocks!” one of them exclaimed. Whateva whateva, I’ll do what I want with my body! Sheeeeeeiiiiiiiitttttt…
Since then, I’ve come across many forms of C12H22O11, whether it be in hard candy, processed sweet ’n lo sugar, sugar alcohol, or chocolate. The latest I’ve come across was PURE and UNCUT powdered sugar, in pressed cube form, with a dainty logo on top:
YEEUHHHH!!! NIGGA WHAT!!!!!!!!!!!!
I considered sending them in to DanceSafe as the new ecstasy pills, except it costs $30 for the lab to test each pill. And why waste that when I could be using that money to be buying more sugar with? If that isn’t proof I’m an addict, I don’t know what is.
(more in next post)
C12H22O11. Common slang: Sucrose, Table Sugar, Sugar, Sweets, Candy.
My first experience with sucrose was also the first time I ever succumbed to peer pressure. I was in 6th grade Conceptual Physics class (hey hey, I know it ain’t the real physics okay, I took THAT in 9th grade), and two other boys were crushing up Smarties in class and snorting them. They groaned on about how badly it burned, and passed the baggie over to me.
“Here fag, snort this,” one of them instructed.
Without blinking, I said, “Okay.” Being a brain-washed kid and desiring to be a part of the popular crowd, I figured, what harm could possibly come out of snorting a little candy?
I don’t remember getting high then, but maybe that was because I only snorted about 1-2 of them, so I’m assuming the dosage was not high enough. Still, it awarded me popularity points, so that alone already filled all the broken whiskey dreams of my life.
The first instance I can remember getting an uppity feeling from eating sugar was last summer, when I was already little tipsy from a few beers with friends. I had smoked a little (read: a lot) of weed back at my house and had gotten a bad case of the munchies, so I had eaten maybe a couple (read: half a box of) chocolate chip cookies, a scoop (read: a pint-sized portion) of Ben & Jerry’s mint chip ice cream, and a piece of fruit (read: four cherry and blueberry flavored Tootsie Pops). Normally, when I smoke pot, I become tremendously lethargic, and unwilling to participate in physical activities that require strenuous work of the muscle.
Instead, I was unusually hyperactive and even requested my friend Kathy to take me to Tim’s house. Tim was her co-worker that had been acting rude to her at work lately, so she refused at first. But I begged and pleading, insisting that “it would be funny” if we just showed up, and out of annoyance she complied. The entire car ride she kept asking why I wanted to see her co-worker that I had only met a couple times before, and my only response was to giggle like a manic like and tell her it was a secret and a SURPRISE!
She pulled into a nice, quiet neighborhood and stopped the car a couple houses away, turning off her headlights. “I’m not parking next to his driveway.”
I asked her what car he drives, and she pointed to the white, Ford truck that lay ahead a couple houses. Without further ado, I scurried out to his car, and peeped around me for any bystanders.
Then, being the crazy drunk that I am, pulled down my pants and took a piss on the side of his car. I was on my heaviest day of the rag, so I was kind enough to pull out my bloody, used, dirty tampon and leave it on his hood as an added bonus. Kathy enjoyed the little present so much, she promptly took a picture.
The lesson to be learned here, kids, is: DON’T MESS WITH THE MISTRESS!
Almost one year passed before I gave a high dose of sucrose another try. I had bought some Country Time Strawberry Lemonade powder in bulk—1lb and 2oz to be exact. I consumed roughly an ounce of the stuff (for no reason what-so-ever other than “it tasted good” while coming down off the first methamphetamine and cocaine combo that went awry. I wasn’t expecting to achieve any sort of high at all, till it happened.
If you buy in bulk, it’s cheaper!
My friend was telling a story, when out of nowhere I burst out in this inane cackle, for no apparent reason. Not only did it bring back the cracked-out cocaine high a little, it also brought out a heavily exaggerated feeling of joy and motivation to make others laugh. The phone rang, and I answered the phone in a well-versed British accent with a sly, sneaky, “Hello Dr. Evil,” and promptly hung up.
My friend shrieked out a, “What the fuck!!!” and presumed laughing till her sides hurt. In the meantime, I was bouncing off the walls, jabbering about nonsensical material. Among one of them was asking her the eternal philosophical question that had been plaguing mankind for centuries: “Would you cry for Argentina?” I then started rapping the lyrics to “Get Low” by Lil Jon& The Eastside Boyz, & the Ying Yang Twins. The mystery however, was figuring out how I had remembered these lyrics and was able to recite them by heart, bearing in mind I wasn’t a rap fan.
The high went away after 15 minutes, but let me tell you, it was more intense than coke or meth, PUT TOGETHER. Even my shocked friend noted that she had never seen me that twacked out in her life, even on uppers like cocaine or methamphetamines. With energy like that, I was hooked. Within two days, I had eaten through an entire pound of Country Time Lemonade. I ate most of the powder straight for intensity, seeing as how only pussies weaken the high by mixing it with water.
That day, I spoke to a meth dealer named Jack about my new drug of choice. He tried to convince me I was an addict, constantly fiending for that next sugar high.
“I’m not an addict!” I argued back with an assertive flare.
“Are you trying to convince me, or YOURSELF?” He refuted. He had made his point clear.
When I suggested to my other friends about replacing their daily meth use with chronic sugar intake, they were abhorred. My insanity had been confirmed.
“That stuff will rot your teeth faster than a pizzo loaded with rocks!” one of them exclaimed. Whateva whateva, I’ll do what I want with my body! Sheeeeeeiiiiiiiitttttt…
Since then, I’ve come across many forms of C12H22O11, whether it be in hard candy, processed sweet ’n lo sugar, sugar alcohol, or chocolate. The latest I’ve come across was PURE and UNCUT powdered sugar, in pressed cube form, with a dainty logo on top:
YEEUHHHH!!! NIGGA WHAT!!!!!!!!!!!!
I considered sending them in to DanceSafe as the new ecstasy pills, except it costs $30 for the lab to test each pill. And why waste that when I could be using that money to be buying more sugar with? If that isn’t proof I’m an addict, I don’t know what is.
(more in next post)
