9mmCensor
Ex-Bluelighter
- Joined
- Oct 18, 2006
- Messages
- 4,956
I always hide in fiction. Thus I have never done a trip report, because I think it should be honest and pure. But I think this time, I will try it. This is me.
***
I am waiting for the bus, there is a slight breeze keeping the bugs off of me, its warm and I am standing underneath the stars. Three reprobates are sitting in the bus station smoking cigarettes, one balancing with his legs on the plastic wall leaned back in a wheelchair.
The kid explains hes never taken the bus with the wheelchair, and the driver straps him down.
I arrive at the party, the hallway is pitch black, are there ninjas in the darkness, was that glass I stepped on, a signal to an assassin. My phone lights the way, I knock and enter.
Chilling ensues. I sit recording in my head. Focusing all my energy on the moment, capturing it in my head. The images and words of it floating in my head, constantly being analyzed, looking over everything again in my head.
People arrive, seats fill, the floor is occupied, conversations spontaneously erupt, my ears switching between them, sometimes mixing and confusing them. I don't talk much.
A girl spews pretentious vomit, So and So book... really to like that book you need to have gotten a good mark in English, and taken philosophy, emphasizing the need to take a course and be approved by a fucked little community. "Fuck you," I scream in my head, I read your university books in high school.
I made hash. I make really good hash. I made a small quantity of 99% quick wash iso hash, almost baked on a pie plate so that it was like dry wet sand that stuck together with a tiny fusion of dense clumps rolled tight.
We heated the knives on the stove and burned the hash balls in between super hot knives. Small balls turned into surprisingly huge tokes.
The previously enthusiastic crowd, calmed and chilled.
Cries for karaoke from a drinker. She doesn't want to sing but wants to hear others and dance around. WFT? Thats not how it works. If you push for it you gotta do it.
Anyways first up is a stoner, hip as can be, slit jeans, slick shirt, a handsome beard is up. (Not me)
He puts on Sublime's Santeria. True to the spirit he's stoned and forgets most of the words, but makes up for it with slick dancing skills. Awesome performance.
A CD is found. Whats this? we ask. Thats the songs I like to sing to, our host explained. Lets not listen to it, she said, but we did anyway, most being skipped after recognition to whatever to sing to in front of people.
People are baked, giggling at the music, booping around, drinking, laughing, singing, talking.
This dude is from Afghanistan. He said they had good hash. And there were poppies fucking everywhere. Heroin production soared when the taliban fell. The reporter that wrote stories about the CIA and crack shoot himself twice in the head, no one knows how to shoot themselves twice in the head.
I cant go to bars. Patios sometimes. Only when its not busy. Lots of people around that I don't know, and I get weirded out real quick. I walk real fast in between where I go, to avoid any public interaction, I avoid busy places and hang in the background.
Everyone goes to drink and I walk a few kilometers home.
At an intersection I see a little red hand staring me down, shining in my eyes. A ball of hash just hit me. No ones on the sidewalks, its late and dark. I am alone in public, the lights cast their glow on me, all beams pointed at me, lighting me up in the dark night. I wait for the light, my mind is racing. Violent eruptions of creativity, alternate worlds quantum developed in my head, the universe cloning itself, I am its God, its existence created and governed by me. I have a few I like to live in. I see a punk standing at the spot I am, clothed in a ripped trench coat, a Kevlar vest beneath a dirty French shirt. "FUCK YOU HAND!" He walks into the street a car flies towards him the light green for them, he pulls out an automatic pistol and blasts away, the fire spewing from the barrel in the puddle of water on the road beneath him. The car spins out of control, the drivers blood covering the generic occupants of the car as it spins in the air above the punk, he reloads and tracks the car with the pistol blasting at the gastank it explodes as it lands on its side and he puts the gun away and walks on.
I come home.
***
I am waiting for the bus, there is a slight breeze keeping the bugs off of me, its warm and I am standing underneath the stars. Three reprobates are sitting in the bus station smoking cigarettes, one balancing with his legs on the plastic wall leaned back in a wheelchair.
The kid explains hes never taken the bus with the wheelchair, and the driver straps him down.
I arrive at the party, the hallway is pitch black, are there ninjas in the darkness, was that glass I stepped on, a signal to an assassin. My phone lights the way, I knock and enter.
Chilling ensues. I sit recording in my head. Focusing all my energy on the moment, capturing it in my head. The images and words of it floating in my head, constantly being analyzed, looking over everything again in my head.
People arrive, seats fill, the floor is occupied, conversations spontaneously erupt, my ears switching between them, sometimes mixing and confusing them. I don't talk much.
A girl spews pretentious vomit, So and So book... really to like that book you need to have gotten a good mark in English, and taken philosophy, emphasizing the need to take a course and be approved by a fucked little community. "Fuck you," I scream in my head, I read your university books in high school.
I made hash. I make really good hash. I made a small quantity of 99% quick wash iso hash, almost baked on a pie plate so that it was like dry wet sand that stuck together with a tiny fusion of dense clumps rolled tight.
We heated the knives on the stove and burned the hash balls in between super hot knives. Small balls turned into surprisingly huge tokes.
The previously enthusiastic crowd, calmed and chilled.
Cries for karaoke from a drinker. She doesn't want to sing but wants to hear others and dance around. WFT? Thats not how it works. If you push for it you gotta do it.
Anyways first up is a stoner, hip as can be, slit jeans, slick shirt, a handsome beard is up. (Not me)
He puts on Sublime's Santeria. True to the spirit he's stoned and forgets most of the words, but makes up for it with slick dancing skills. Awesome performance.
A CD is found. Whats this? we ask. Thats the songs I like to sing to, our host explained. Lets not listen to it, she said, but we did anyway, most being skipped after recognition to whatever to sing to in front of people.
People are baked, giggling at the music, booping around, drinking, laughing, singing, talking.
This dude is from Afghanistan. He said they had good hash. And there were poppies fucking everywhere. Heroin production soared when the taliban fell. The reporter that wrote stories about the CIA and crack shoot himself twice in the head, no one knows how to shoot themselves twice in the head.
I cant go to bars. Patios sometimes. Only when its not busy. Lots of people around that I don't know, and I get weirded out real quick. I walk real fast in between where I go, to avoid any public interaction, I avoid busy places and hang in the background.
Everyone goes to drink and I walk a few kilometers home.
At an intersection I see a little red hand staring me down, shining in my eyes. A ball of hash just hit me. No ones on the sidewalks, its late and dark. I am alone in public, the lights cast their glow on me, all beams pointed at me, lighting me up in the dark night. I wait for the light, my mind is racing. Violent eruptions of creativity, alternate worlds quantum developed in my head, the universe cloning itself, I am its God, its existence created and governed by me. I have a few I like to live in. I see a punk standing at the spot I am, clothed in a ripped trench coat, a Kevlar vest beneath a dirty French shirt. "FUCK YOU HAND!" He walks into the street a car flies towards him the light green for them, he pulls out an automatic pistol and blasts away, the fire spewing from the barrel in the puddle of water on the road beneath him. The car spins out of control, the drivers blood covering the generic occupants of the car as it spins in the air above the punk, he reloads and tracks the car with the pistol blasting at the gastank it explodes as it lands on its side and he puts the gun away and walks on.
I come home.
