Back home I kissed P goodbye for the evening and went in to fix up some a light dinner and wash down my 2CB. I practised guitar a bit and read, before having a nice warm bath, gradually becoming pleasantly befuddled in a warm soggy way to the sound of Keth Jarret on the hifi. Whilst soaking away the labours of the earlier day and noting my gentle inebriation, I decided to swallow down the first dose of Methylone. I had been sensing that I was leaning too much on M1 for my jollys. My tolerance for it had been growing over the month, and the initial strong effects were becoming harder to reach with larger doses. I decided I would finish what I had and not buy again for a good while. This policy has worked reasonably for me in the past few years. I haven't noticed any serious long term negative effects from these occasional semi binge type phases. Thus I took 300mg as the first dose. I drained the bath a litle and added some very hot water. I was enjoying the sensation of the almost-too hot water, the methylone, and letting my mind wander through the altered permutations of thoughts with the M1. I even sparked up a bathtime spliff. It was all at the upper end of blissfullness.
That was the moment my front doorbell rang. Irritated, I raised myself up to have a peek out the bathroom window. 'Hello. I'm in the bath. Who is it?', says I assuming a door to door sales call or parcel delivery. Nope, there's my buddy on the drive -'You up to much?'. 'no, I suppose. Hang on a minute.'I quicky dried, gowned up and went to get the door. I explained to him that he was welcome for a quick smoke before I 'had to go out'. This was the best I could offer. I did not want to spend my peak high in this way particularly, but thought it would be mean to turn him away.
I made us some tea and conversed fairly coherently with him. I don't think it was too obvious that I was extremely high, although he looked a little confused when I started rambling on about the virtues of my EMU hardware sampler at one point. I sat and rolled a couple of quite strong joints. With Methylone, I frequently load my joints rather heavily and these two were of that variety. In my geek shed we sparked up and I fiddled about on my guitar, not feeling very talkative. Obviously neither was he particularly. I was resentfully determined to continue fiddling musically despite his pressence, and got lost in a world of practising odd riffs and musical ideas to myself. I was probably at it for about ten minutes, oblivious to my guest, when suddenly I heard the word 'Sorry' and a flurry of activity. Distracted from my reverie, I looked over in time to witness my pal, 'J---Y' jumping up and bolting unsuccesfully for the double-glaze doors which did not cooperate in time to prevent him violently throwing up a primary blast of vomit down them, over the door handles and splattering onto the floor. A second door opening attempt met with greater success whereupon he stood at the door and heaved up maybe four or five more noisy wretches onto and down the steps outside. I discerned from that point that my evening was not likely to go as I'd planned.
I am used to smoking silly amounts of weed, to the point where I sometimes have to lie down to gain composure. I cannot recall the last time I threw up as a result though, perhaps when I was a student in my early twenties. I would have considered it slightly bad form to have thrown up in such a spectacular fashion in someone elses house as a guest, I'll say that much. I just assumed that he was wise to the potency of my joints. And that as a previous chronic user, he would be well able to gauge when to pass the spliff and have a break.
My mind flicked into a damage limitation mode surprisingly. I calmly told him not to worry about it and relax. Sit down and let me take care of it. I was accutely aware of how embarassed I'd feel in his shoes and wanted to spare him additional discomfort on top of where he was already at. I say this not trying to be some kind of saint. At the same time part of me was extremely miffed on numerous levels. There was the cleanup operation now entailing, which would have to be pretty damned thorough. I mean, having to deal with ones own vomit is repulsive enough, but with that of someone else - who I was feeling a little ill-disposed towards, well you can imagine, I am sure. Also, there was no way I could just turf him out in the state he had gotten to. I suppose I maybe bore some responsibility for the situation. They were exceedingly strong joints. I find that pure weed joints don't smoke well. A small core of tobacco seems to smooth out the smoke though, and that is the policy I generally adopt when building a strong one.
The first difficulty was getting out of the shed and down the steps without slipping up in the foul mess. I managed OK while he sat panting in a sorry fashion on the easy chair. I managed to get out without mishap and retrieved buckets of water which I used to sluice down the steps. I guess he was lucky Methylone is an empathogen, because I did my utmost to deal with the situation calmly and discretely. I remember one irrational moment of horror when I realised I was still wearing my favorite pair of Nike Air Max 1 trainers. I went into the house and put my work boots on instead so as not to blemish them with another man's puke. I retrieved more cleaning stuff and returned to the scene of crime to get on with the unpleasant business. I was also conscious that his sickly barking was probably audible at least two doors either way down the street.
As his equilibrium returned, I had to ask him to stop appologising, and told him that I really felt for him, and not to worry. I remember saying he should just relax and that I wasn't the sort to start laying bad vibes on him when he was already feeling pretty ropey. This half assed attempt at sympathy seemed to chill him out. I told him he could stay until he felt up to going home and that I'd sort the rest of the mess out tomorrow. I left him in the shed for a while with a glass of water, while I went to have a quick wash, which turned into a full shower. When I returned with two cups of tea and some biscuits ten minutes later, he looked a bit more perky. It took him another two hours to muster up the energy to leave though, during which time I started craving another joint. In the end I asked if he was OK with me sparking up again, to which he agreed, but I didn't pass it to him this time. It was just a small one for me.
When he finally left, I thought about resuming my musical intentions for the evening, but my shed had lost it's charm and gained a rank aroma not conducive to artistic creativity. I did swallow my second Methylone dose after he'd gone, and instead practiced my accoustic guitar sat on the sofa by the dining room window with the lights dimmed so I could look out at the gloom down the garden as night drew on.
Something really quite positive did arise from the evenings'events. That is, I resolved to completely strip down, sort out, clean, clear and generally overhaul my shed/studio area. Initially a modest plan to remove all trace of my friends mishap, it turned into an operation which has reorganised everything into a much improved set up. I have improved my grow room, and made it more discreet. I dismantled my PC and gave it a thoroughoverhaul. Threw out lots of rubbish, and fitted shelves. Dehumidified. Cleaned the walls. Etc. The space is better used now. It's better for musical stuff. Room to sit three people and record, even record real drums. I also dug out and set up my old EMU hardware sampler (which I had been thinking about earlier that fateful evening. It is an EMU ESi32, a truly cool piece of kit which, before computer software virtual instruments came on the scene, I used to have hours of fun messing with. I love it to bits and will probably write some kind of homage to it one day).
I wished I'd got round to doing all this sooner, although it would have been a real shame if my buddy had come around and blown his chunks all over a nice freshly cleaned studio. Somehow I can persuade myself that all this has been rather fortuitous. Power of positive whatnot or somesuch. Nowadays, it is a clean and pleasant place, smelling of orange essential oil when the air is not filled with the fragrance of flowering hash plants or indeed one of my spliffs.
I continued to avoid by friend for a few weeks after that, but he began to visit again later, though thankfully I think he perceived that twice a week was more often than I was comfortable with. Recently I have been showing him how to use Cubase on my PC so that at least when he is round and I'm doing music, he can make himself usefull by pressing the record button for me. His moment of crisis was as much a surprise to him as it was to me. I didn't tell hime that I was chemically inebriated at that moment. But I kind of resented wasting good drugs that evening.
Peace Pipp
That was the moment my front doorbell rang. Irritated, I raised myself up to have a peek out the bathroom window. 'Hello. I'm in the bath. Who is it?', says I assuming a door to door sales call or parcel delivery. Nope, there's my buddy on the drive -'You up to much?'. 'no, I suppose. Hang on a minute.'I quicky dried, gowned up and went to get the door. I explained to him that he was welcome for a quick smoke before I 'had to go out'. This was the best I could offer. I did not want to spend my peak high in this way particularly, but thought it would be mean to turn him away.
I made us some tea and conversed fairly coherently with him. I don't think it was too obvious that I was extremely high, although he looked a little confused when I started rambling on about the virtues of my EMU hardware sampler at one point. I sat and rolled a couple of quite strong joints. With Methylone, I frequently load my joints rather heavily and these two were of that variety. In my geek shed we sparked up and I fiddled about on my guitar, not feeling very talkative. Obviously neither was he particularly. I was resentfully determined to continue fiddling musically despite his pressence, and got lost in a world of practising odd riffs and musical ideas to myself. I was probably at it for about ten minutes, oblivious to my guest, when suddenly I heard the word 'Sorry' and a flurry of activity. Distracted from my reverie, I looked over in time to witness my pal, 'J---Y' jumping up and bolting unsuccesfully for the double-glaze doors which did not cooperate in time to prevent him violently throwing up a primary blast of vomit down them, over the door handles and splattering onto the floor. A second door opening attempt met with greater success whereupon he stood at the door and heaved up maybe four or five more noisy wretches onto and down the steps outside. I discerned from that point that my evening was not likely to go as I'd planned.
I am used to smoking silly amounts of weed, to the point where I sometimes have to lie down to gain composure. I cannot recall the last time I threw up as a result though, perhaps when I was a student in my early twenties. I would have considered it slightly bad form to have thrown up in such a spectacular fashion in someone elses house as a guest, I'll say that much. I just assumed that he was wise to the potency of my joints. And that as a previous chronic user, he would be well able to gauge when to pass the spliff and have a break.
My mind flicked into a damage limitation mode surprisingly. I calmly told him not to worry about it and relax. Sit down and let me take care of it. I was accutely aware of how embarassed I'd feel in his shoes and wanted to spare him additional discomfort on top of where he was already at. I say this not trying to be some kind of saint. At the same time part of me was extremely miffed on numerous levels. There was the cleanup operation now entailing, which would have to be pretty damned thorough. I mean, having to deal with ones own vomit is repulsive enough, but with that of someone else - who I was feeling a little ill-disposed towards, well you can imagine, I am sure. Also, there was no way I could just turf him out in the state he had gotten to. I suppose I maybe bore some responsibility for the situation. They were exceedingly strong joints. I find that pure weed joints don't smoke well. A small core of tobacco seems to smooth out the smoke though, and that is the policy I generally adopt when building a strong one.
The first difficulty was getting out of the shed and down the steps without slipping up in the foul mess. I managed OK while he sat panting in a sorry fashion on the easy chair. I managed to get out without mishap and retrieved buckets of water which I used to sluice down the steps. I guess he was lucky Methylone is an empathogen, because I did my utmost to deal with the situation calmly and discretely. I remember one irrational moment of horror when I realised I was still wearing my favorite pair of Nike Air Max 1 trainers. I went into the house and put my work boots on instead so as not to blemish them with another man's puke. I retrieved more cleaning stuff and returned to the scene of crime to get on with the unpleasant business. I was also conscious that his sickly barking was probably audible at least two doors either way down the street.
As his equilibrium returned, I had to ask him to stop appologising, and told him that I really felt for him, and not to worry. I remember saying he should just relax and that I wasn't the sort to start laying bad vibes on him when he was already feeling pretty ropey. This half assed attempt at sympathy seemed to chill him out. I told him he could stay until he felt up to going home and that I'd sort the rest of the mess out tomorrow. I left him in the shed for a while with a glass of water, while I went to have a quick wash, which turned into a full shower. When I returned with two cups of tea and some biscuits ten minutes later, he looked a bit more perky. It took him another two hours to muster up the energy to leave though, during which time I started craving another joint. In the end I asked if he was OK with me sparking up again, to which he agreed, but I didn't pass it to him this time. It was just a small one for me.
When he finally left, I thought about resuming my musical intentions for the evening, but my shed had lost it's charm and gained a rank aroma not conducive to artistic creativity. I did swallow my second Methylone dose after he'd gone, and instead practiced my accoustic guitar sat on the sofa by the dining room window with the lights dimmed so I could look out at the gloom down the garden as night drew on.
Something really quite positive did arise from the evenings'events. That is, I resolved to completely strip down, sort out, clean, clear and generally overhaul my shed/studio area. Initially a modest plan to remove all trace of my friends mishap, it turned into an operation which has reorganised everything into a much improved set up. I have improved my grow room, and made it more discreet. I dismantled my PC and gave it a thoroughoverhaul. Threw out lots of rubbish, and fitted shelves. Dehumidified. Cleaned the walls. Etc. The space is better used now. It's better for musical stuff. Room to sit three people and record, even record real drums. I also dug out and set up my old EMU hardware sampler (which I had been thinking about earlier that fateful evening. It is an EMU ESi32, a truly cool piece of kit which, before computer software virtual instruments came on the scene, I used to have hours of fun messing with. I love it to bits and will probably write some kind of homage to it one day).
I wished I'd got round to doing all this sooner, although it would have been a real shame if my buddy had come around and blown his chunks all over a nice freshly cleaned studio. Somehow I can persuade myself that all this has been rather fortuitous. Power of positive whatnot or somesuch. Nowadays, it is a clean and pleasant place, smelling of orange essential oil when the air is not filled with the fragrance of flowering hash plants or indeed one of my spliffs.
I continued to avoid by friend for a few weeks after that, but he began to visit again later, though thankfully I think he perceived that twice a week was more often than I was comfortable with. Recently I have been showing him how to use Cubase on my PC so that at least when he is round and I'm doing music, he can make himself usefull by pressing the record button for me. His moment of crisis was as much a surprise to him as it was to me. I didn't tell hime that I was chemically inebriated at that moment. But I kind of resented wasting good drugs that evening.
Peace Pipp