jonathan833
Bluelighter
Last night I decided I'd use my only night off before March 6th to go on my heaviest trip yet. I went to Harris Teeter and bought a bottle of Tussin, and went to Rite Aid and bought two bottles of Robitussin Capsules and a pack of smokes, for a grand total of 950 mgs. of DXM. Downed it all in the parking lot.
Nobody looms around a grocery store parking lot at 9 pm on a Sunday unless they have the intention of getting high on common household products. This must be why they don't have cameras here, and why my scooter was never recovered after it was stolen out of this very lot last month. These fools don't realize how much good petty criminals like myself do for us all; through our ill-played shenannigans, we make security measures necessary, and when something truly bad happens, the myth will be caught on tape. This is what I told myself as the first wave of ingestion warned me of things to come. My stomach felt like it was full of ferns.
When I got home I made sure to lock my motorcycle up, as I knew I wouldn't have the sense to come check on it again later. I stepped into my 400 sq. foot apartment and flipped open my laptop. What haven't I seen in a while? What would be good for this trip? Avatar sucked on the little screen, and Mulholland Dr. was just too much.. Fear and Loathing, but I saw that last time. I decide on The Big Lebowski and step outside while it downloads. The air is cool but forgiving. Several white complexes border an island of asphalt and dozens of cars belonging to the various inhabitants of this small nest in the city. The DXM is starting play with me. The watermarks are getting darker, more decorated and somehow deeper. I decide to light a cigarette and start walking back to my house.
My phone plays music, but I don't have headphones with me. I find them atop my television, the same place they'd been since my last trip. Opeth is always good, if somewhat funny under the influence of this drug. Radiohead fits it quite well, though. I listen to Kid A and sit on my bed. Lebowski is still downloading. My peripheral vision becomes distorted, twisting until it resembles my workplace. Club Onyx, a popular strip club. I'm a bar-back, aren't I? Beautiful women dance on poles too far for me to journey towards. This isn't Onyx, I believe I say. Travis, my co-worker sits on a knee-high barstool next to my bed and asks me to run the fruit trays to the VIP bar. I comply, repositioning myself on the bed.
Radiohead has to go. Lebowski is finished. I surf the web for a moment. Facebook. It's the conspirist's homepage that's turning everyone into Marilyn Monroe and James Dean--although for some reason I find everyone to be absolutely hideous under the influence of DXM. Fat cheeks, eyes displaced, skin so sweaty and porous it makes me want to squeeze puss out of it. I go to Youtube. Forget it. Play the movie, the drugs are killing me.
Within the first few minutes I'm laughing like a madman at a funeral. Early on, I realize that despite having seen this film several dozen times, I've never truly understood it. The Coen Bros. wrote this film to be a cult classic. It's a parody of itself. They knew exactly how it would be received. They knew it was brilliant and over everybody's heads. It's the ultimate concept: A clash of philosophies with an underlying theme of nihilism, in which the nihilists are victimized. Wait, I already knew that. I wrote a paper on it in High School. Suddenly, it's over. What the fuck? I tried to recall the title of the film I'd just seen, and concluded with "The Big G." Television? No. Go outside.
Holy shit it's freezing out here. Go inside. Put on another hat. Stop walking like Yosemite Sam. Better turn the heater off if I'm gonna be outside. I click off the lights and make my way towards the heater. What are these floating boxes doing here? What do you want, I ask. They ignore me. This is my house and I'm the only one here, I believe I say. I push through the intruders to kill the heat, their remains falling to my carpet like bright ember ashes.
I walk the path back to my motorcycle, turning the corner and realizing how cross-eyed I'd become. I'm fucked, I know it. Sirens ring in the distance. Be casual, I said. Don't try to run or they'll think you have lockjaw. Get inside. Why do I feel this way? Wasn't there a contest between myself and my aunt to see who could smoke the most cigarettes? Is this why I feel so weird? No, I drank Robitussin. I feel betrayed by myself, as if I'd dropped myself off at some boarding school thinking it would be good for me, not realizing that I was leaving myself behind in the Circle of Virtuous Pagans.
Lying on the bed in total darkness. I look about the various apparitions wandering about my efficiency apartment. Entertain me, I say. Is that all you can do? Glass objects fall from the ceiling as it slowly rises. Cones, spheres, rods.. a subconscious recognition of the effects of DXM on my eyeballs? I try to catch the snowy items, but they pass through my fingers. The lights on my modem won't stay still. I can control them the same way I control my eye-dots; they will follow vision, but always drift from the center, except they vibrate madly and seem to move along a highway. Reminds me of Tron.
I open my laptop again. Club Onyx returns. Security is all around me, watching over my shoulder as I google various artwork. Bioshock has nice artwork. I should watch someone playing that on Youtube. No, I should just close the laptop. I close it. Dark again. The room is crowded. Am I really the only one here? I feel as though I've been talking to someone. I watch as the room morphs with more versatility than any artist I can speak of. I speak aloud with coworkers. Am I a workaholic? Is this my weekend getaway? What kind of person am I? On a good DXM trip, you're never sure if you're alive or dead. This was the first trip in years in which I'd lost total awareness of my surroundings, but death was an ominous feeling. By the same token, death is not a bad condition. If I die, that's fine. I left my body in the bathroom anyway.
8 hours later I lose consciousness somewhere and wake up and write this report, still feeling the after-effects. Tight muscles. Slight double-vision. Dissociation. Euphoria. I love the stuff.
Nobody looms around a grocery store parking lot at 9 pm on a Sunday unless they have the intention of getting high on common household products. This must be why they don't have cameras here, and why my scooter was never recovered after it was stolen out of this very lot last month. These fools don't realize how much good petty criminals like myself do for us all; through our ill-played shenannigans, we make security measures necessary, and when something truly bad happens, the myth will be caught on tape. This is what I told myself as the first wave of ingestion warned me of things to come. My stomach felt like it was full of ferns.
When I got home I made sure to lock my motorcycle up, as I knew I wouldn't have the sense to come check on it again later. I stepped into my 400 sq. foot apartment and flipped open my laptop. What haven't I seen in a while? What would be good for this trip? Avatar sucked on the little screen, and Mulholland Dr. was just too much.. Fear and Loathing, but I saw that last time. I decide on The Big Lebowski and step outside while it downloads. The air is cool but forgiving. Several white complexes border an island of asphalt and dozens of cars belonging to the various inhabitants of this small nest in the city. The DXM is starting play with me. The watermarks are getting darker, more decorated and somehow deeper. I decide to light a cigarette and start walking back to my house.
My phone plays music, but I don't have headphones with me. I find them atop my television, the same place they'd been since my last trip. Opeth is always good, if somewhat funny under the influence of this drug. Radiohead fits it quite well, though. I listen to Kid A and sit on my bed. Lebowski is still downloading. My peripheral vision becomes distorted, twisting until it resembles my workplace. Club Onyx, a popular strip club. I'm a bar-back, aren't I? Beautiful women dance on poles too far for me to journey towards. This isn't Onyx, I believe I say. Travis, my co-worker sits on a knee-high barstool next to my bed and asks me to run the fruit trays to the VIP bar. I comply, repositioning myself on the bed.
Radiohead has to go. Lebowski is finished. I surf the web for a moment. Facebook. It's the conspirist's homepage that's turning everyone into Marilyn Monroe and James Dean--although for some reason I find everyone to be absolutely hideous under the influence of DXM. Fat cheeks, eyes displaced, skin so sweaty and porous it makes me want to squeeze puss out of it. I go to Youtube. Forget it. Play the movie, the drugs are killing me.
Within the first few minutes I'm laughing like a madman at a funeral. Early on, I realize that despite having seen this film several dozen times, I've never truly understood it. The Coen Bros. wrote this film to be a cult classic. It's a parody of itself. They knew exactly how it would be received. They knew it was brilliant and over everybody's heads. It's the ultimate concept: A clash of philosophies with an underlying theme of nihilism, in which the nihilists are victimized. Wait, I already knew that. I wrote a paper on it in High School. Suddenly, it's over. What the fuck? I tried to recall the title of the film I'd just seen, and concluded with "The Big G." Television? No. Go outside.
Holy shit it's freezing out here. Go inside. Put on another hat. Stop walking like Yosemite Sam. Better turn the heater off if I'm gonna be outside. I click off the lights and make my way towards the heater. What are these floating boxes doing here? What do you want, I ask. They ignore me. This is my house and I'm the only one here, I believe I say. I push through the intruders to kill the heat, their remains falling to my carpet like bright ember ashes.
I walk the path back to my motorcycle, turning the corner and realizing how cross-eyed I'd become. I'm fucked, I know it. Sirens ring in the distance. Be casual, I said. Don't try to run or they'll think you have lockjaw. Get inside. Why do I feel this way? Wasn't there a contest between myself and my aunt to see who could smoke the most cigarettes? Is this why I feel so weird? No, I drank Robitussin. I feel betrayed by myself, as if I'd dropped myself off at some boarding school thinking it would be good for me, not realizing that I was leaving myself behind in the Circle of Virtuous Pagans.
Lying on the bed in total darkness. I look about the various apparitions wandering about my efficiency apartment. Entertain me, I say. Is that all you can do? Glass objects fall from the ceiling as it slowly rises. Cones, spheres, rods.. a subconscious recognition of the effects of DXM on my eyeballs? I try to catch the snowy items, but they pass through my fingers. The lights on my modem won't stay still. I can control them the same way I control my eye-dots; they will follow vision, but always drift from the center, except they vibrate madly and seem to move along a highway. Reminds me of Tron.
I open my laptop again. Club Onyx returns. Security is all around me, watching over my shoulder as I google various artwork. Bioshock has nice artwork. I should watch someone playing that on Youtube. No, I should just close the laptop. I close it. Dark again. The room is crowded. Am I really the only one here? I feel as though I've been talking to someone. I watch as the room morphs with more versatility than any artist I can speak of. I speak aloud with coworkers. Am I a workaholic? Is this my weekend getaway? What kind of person am I? On a good DXM trip, you're never sure if you're alive or dead. This was the first trip in years in which I'd lost total awareness of my surroundings, but death was an ominous feeling. By the same token, death is not a bad condition. If I die, that's fine. I left my body in the bathroom anyway.
8 hours later I lose consciousness somewhere and wake up and write this report, still feeling the after-effects. Tight muscles. Slight double-vision. Dissociation. Euphoria. I love the stuff.
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