washingtonbound
Bluelighter
I started on this today, is it engaging enough that it's worth continuing? Would love to know your thoughts
As I sat smoking meth with a hooker in a shoddy Mexico City hotel, I contemplated the meaninglessness of my existence. I wondered how long I would flit around Latin America, chasing women and drugs, before everything would fall apart in front of me. For the past five years, I’d alternated from living with family, working trivial, worthless jobs, to saving up a few grand and running for the hills. My first rodeo was in 2019 to Medellin, Colombia, during which I nearly overdosed and wound up back in Florida with a hefty case of drug induced psychosis.
I didn’t always envision my future this way. I naively thought at one point that I would have some kind of career in media, but after different drug addled incidents took me out of college on three separate occasions, I sort of gave up on this altogether. I never liked living in the US either, I hated the police, the GMO food and the soulless atmosphere. So I decided to leave the matrix and find my own purpose in life.
After about a month in Colombia, the familiar sense of nihilism crept over me once again. I realized how much of the population lived in a constant state of desperation, which became more evident the further you ventured from the tourist areas. People warned me not to accept drinks from any strange girls in bars, as that could result in you waking up with none of your belongings and no recollection of how it happened. Putting scopolamine in an unsuspecting foreigner’s drink was apparently the method of choice for these “ladronas” as they’re called in Spanish.
Luckily I didn’t meet a fate like this, but drugs still caused me to deteriorate over the course of my month there. I started out smoking weed, sniffing cocaine and drinking casually with some locals at a skatepark near my hotel. The weed and cocaine combo scared the shit out of me, due to the arrhythmias it produced, but I continued this “social activity” regardless. Maybe I could’ve walked away from that, but after I started buying clonazepam and mixing it with coke on my own in my hotel room, it was game over.
One day I decided to venture to Parque Arvi, a tourist attraction located on the outskirts of the city. I sniffed coke inside the cable car on the ride up the mountain, and observed that many people lived in homes made out of plastic. A simple thin piece of sheet metal for a roof appeared to be a commodity for some. This disturbed me, and I decided to sniff more coke as a result. When I arrived at Parque Arvi I was anxious, paranoid and still rattled.
On the way back to the hotel I ended up taking a bit more clonazepam than I was used to and railed a few lines when I arrived. I felt my heart skip several beats, and was convinced it was game over. Why was I doing this to myself? Was my fate really to die in a shoddy Colombian hotel, cracked out on some dope I bought from thugs at a skatepark? It seemed like self destruction was as automatic to me as breathing, although breathing might not have been in the cards for me anymore after this.
Coming down off this binge, I began getting really agitated by the idea I was being taken advantage of by people at the skatepark who saw me as a gringo piggy bank. Further thought led me to realize only one of the people there could be considered a genuine friend. Everyone else was just happy that the dumb white guy would buy anything that was offered. Therefore, in a cracked out state, I ventured to the skatepark and vehemently spoke my mind in broken spanish. Before anyone could respond I skated off, and didn’t venture there again. In retrospect I’m lucky not to have endured a beating for that incident.
Shortly afterwards, I began slipping into psychosis. The way I understand it is that after a certain point, my brain becomes too stressed from drugs, difficult experiences and whatever else and decides to shut off. It’s like some kind of dissociative defense mechanism. In this half-cocked psychotic state, I decided to venture to the amazon to “cleanse myself” with a shaman. Somehow I managed to take a plane to Cali, then caught a bus to the Colombia-Ecuador border. From there I caught a flight from Quito to Lima, and then a 5am flight to Iquitos, after spending a few hours in a hotel with piles of animal shit in front of it. I have no idea how I managed to travel there in such a messed up state, I suppose manic determination to take ayahuasca played a part in it.
As I sat smoking meth with a hooker in a shoddy Mexico City hotel, I contemplated the meaninglessness of my existence. I wondered how long I would flit around Latin America, chasing women and drugs, before everything would fall apart in front of me. For the past five years, I’d alternated from living with family, working trivial, worthless jobs, to saving up a few grand and running for the hills. My first rodeo was in 2019 to Medellin, Colombia, during which I nearly overdosed and wound up back in Florida with a hefty case of drug induced psychosis.
I didn’t always envision my future this way. I naively thought at one point that I would have some kind of career in media, but after different drug addled incidents took me out of college on three separate occasions, I sort of gave up on this altogether. I never liked living in the US either, I hated the police, the GMO food and the soulless atmosphere. So I decided to leave the matrix and find my own purpose in life.
After about a month in Colombia, the familiar sense of nihilism crept over me once again. I realized how much of the population lived in a constant state of desperation, which became more evident the further you ventured from the tourist areas. People warned me not to accept drinks from any strange girls in bars, as that could result in you waking up with none of your belongings and no recollection of how it happened. Putting scopolamine in an unsuspecting foreigner’s drink was apparently the method of choice for these “ladronas” as they’re called in Spanish.
Luckily I didn’t meet a fate like this, but drugs still caused me to deteriorate over the course of my month there. I started out smoking weed, sniffing cocaine and drinking casually with some locals at a skatepark near my hotel. The weed and cocaine combo scared the shit out of me, due to the arrhythmias it produced, but I continued this “social activity” regardless. Maybe I could’ve walked away from that, but after I started buying clonazepam and mixing it with coke on my own in my hotel room, it was game over.
One day I decided to venture to Parque Arvi, a tourist attraction located on the outskirts of the city. I sniffed coke inside the cable car on the ride up the mountain, and observed that many people lived in homes made out of plastic. A simple thin piece of sheet metal for a roof appeared to be a commodity for some. This disturbed me, and I decided to sniff more coke as a result. When I arrived at Parque Arvi I was anxious, paranoid and still rattled.
On the way back to the hotel I ended up taking a bit more clonazepam than I was used to and railed a few lines when I arrived. I felt my heart skip several beats, and was convinced it was game over. Why was I doing this to myself? Was my fate really to die in a shoddy Colombian hotel, cracked out on some dope I bought from thugs at a skatepark? It seemed like self destruction was as automatic to me as breathing, although breathing might not have been in the cards for me anymore after this.
Coming down off this binge, I began getting really agitated by the idea I was being taken advantage of by people at the skatepark who saw me as a gringo piggy bank. Further thought led me to realize only one of the people there could be considered a genuine friend. Everyone else was just happy that the dumb white guy would buy anything that was offered. Therefore, in a cracked out state, I ventured to the skatepark and vehemently spoke my mind in broken spanish. Before anyone could respond I skated off, and didn’t venture there again. In retrospect I’m lucky not to have endured a beating for that incident.
Shortly afterwards, I began slipping into psychosis. The way I understand it is that after a certain point, my brain becomes too stressed from drugs, difficult experiences and whatever else and decides to shut off. It’s like some kind of dissociative defense mechanism. In this half-cocked psychotic state, I decided to venture to the amazon to “cleanse myself” with a shaman. Somehow I managed to take a plane to Cali, then caught a bus to the Colombia-Ecuador border. From there I caught a flight from Quito to Lima, and then a 5am flight to Iquitos, after spending a few hours in a hotel with piles of animal shit in front of it. I have no idea how I managed to travel there in such a messed up state, I suppose manic determination to take ayahuasca played a part in it.
it’s mentally, physically, and emotionally taxing in the worst possible ways. 
