sunday.bird
Bluelighter
- Joined
- Mar 11, 2023
- Messages
- 115
At 3:19AM, I have a line of ketamine.
I try to eyeball between 50mg and 100mg.
+0:03
Coming on strong.
…
I walk through to the backroom and rapidly descend into a heavily dissociated state.
I lie down on a plush rug. The fibers of the carpet are exquisite. I describe them – out loud – as infinitely beautiful. I'm talking to my wife. It's past 3AM. I've been arguing with her for hours. Our family has been falling apart for years.
It is impossible to monitor the effects in real time. I am way too smashed to use a computer. I can hardly walk.
I keep talking to my wife. She says, “There are lots of men in the world who... blah blah blah”.
I ask her, as I'm folding myself into different shapes on the carpet, and rubbing my face against the beautifully soft cotton forest. “Do you want to dance with these men?”
She asks me to repeat it.
I lift myself up (like a cartoon seal doing yoga) and I say it again. “Do you want to dance with these men?”
She is confused. “Dance?”
I stand up and do a ridiculous dance, illustrating the word with my alien body.
She laughs.
I am fighting the ketamine. Oscillating between writhing around on the ground – like a spastic fish out of water – and melting relaxed into the floor. At one point, I sit up suddenly and point a long bony finger at the carpet. “Fuck you!” I say.
My wife thinks I'm talking to her.
I tell her I'm not. I tell her she can't see what I'm talking to. I tell her I'm talking to a 4th dimensional shape that wants me to fold myself into it.
I start feeling nausea. The nausea is me fighting the drug. My body is trying to reject it.
She asks if I'm okay.
I tell her, I have to clear my mind. I tell her I've created a beast that can't digest my thoughts. If I don't clear my mind, the beast will make me sick.
The nausea is inflating like a balloon. The more I think about it, the bigger it gets.
I can turn it off. I can stop being sick, but I am choosing not to.
I go to the toilet and vomit.
The tastiest thing I've had in a long time is the flavour of the Coca-Cola in my vomit. It tastes so much better coming out than it did going in. The vomit in the toilet is beautiful. It is a stunning work of art. I get lost in it.
I call out for water.
She brings me a tall glass, filled nearly to the brim. It's hard to manage, like I'm trying to balance a sword on the tip of my nose.
Somehow, I manage to have a sip and put it down on the tiles without smashing it.
I tell her to take it away. I tell her I need water in a plastic bottle.
Eventually she comes back with one of my daughter's sippy cups. It's absurdly colourful and confusing to drink from.
My daughter wakes up and starts calling out for my wife, who is on the other toilet.
“Mum will be there in a second, sweetie. Dad's feeling a bit sick.”
I feel guilty for being this high in the same house as my daughter. Thankfully, she doesn't get up and wander into the bathroom to find me in this compromised state. I don't want her to see me like this.
I manage to get myself to my bedroom. My brain is screaming for Wild Wild Life by Talking Heads for some reason, so I put it on Youtube and lie down in bed.
The video clip is pure art. I fully appreciate it. There are no filters. My ego doesn't interfere with my appreciation of the shapes or the colours. I soak it in. I love it.
I twitch violently on the bed, as if I'm being electrocuted.
The Youtube algorithm moves to another Talking Heads song, then to a compilation of random Blues tracks.
My wife texts me from the other room, to see if I'm okay. I start texting her back, but I don't want to text. I need her in the room.
Before I finish writing my message, I hear her footsteps in the hallway.
We talk a bit, then I say “God damn”.
She asks, “What?”
I tell her I can see her nipples pointing through her top.
She says we can have sex but it doesn't mean we're back together.
We've been breaking up for years. It's confusing. I tell her I don't want to have sex, then I change my mind.
She's right at the end of her period. She gets into bed with me and sucks my dick. She scoops a bit of juice from her pussy, and examines it, like she's topping up engine oil. There isn't much blood.
+1:00
We both orgasm at the same time.
The k is mostly gone now.
I try to eyeball between 50mg and 100mg.
+0:03
Coming on strong.
…
I walk through to the backroom and rapidly descend into a heavily dissociated state.
I lie down on a plush rug. The fibers of the carpet are exquisite. I describe them – out loud – as infinitely beautiful. I'm talking to my wife. It's past 3AM. I've been arguing with her for hours. Our family has been falling apart for years.
It is impossible to monitor the effects in real time. I am way too smashed to use a computer. I can hardly walk.
I keep talking to my wife. She says, “There are lots of men in the world who... blah blah blah”.
I ask her, as I'm folding myself into different shapes on the carpet, and rubbing my face against the beautifully soft cotton forest. “Do you want to dance with these men?”
She asks me to repeat it.
I lift myself up (like a cartoon seal doing yoga) and I say it again. “Do you want to dance with these men?”
She is confused. “Dance?”
I stand up and do a ridiculous dance, illustrating the word with my alien body.
She laughs.
I am fighting the ketamine. Oscillating between writhing around on the ground – like a spastic fish out of water – and melting relaxed into the floor. At one point, I sit up suddenly and point a long bony finger at the carpet. “Fuck you!” I say.
My wife thinks I'm talking to her.
I tell her I'm not. I tell her she can't see what I'm talking to. I tell her I'm talking to a 4th dimensional shape that wants me to fold myself into it.
I start feeling nausea. The nausea is me fighting the drug. My body is trying to reject it.
She asks if I'm okay.
I tell her, I have to clear my mind. I tell her I've created a beast that can't digest my thoughts. If I don't clear my mind, the beast will make me sick.
The nausea is inflating like a balloon. The more I think about it, the bigger it gets.
I can turn it off. I can stop being sick, but I am choosing not to.
I go to the toilet and vomit.
The tastiest thing I've had in a long time is the flavour of the Coca-Cola in my vomit. It tastes so much better coming out than it did going in. The vomit in the toilet is beautiful. It is a stunning work of art. I get lost in it.
I call out for water.
She brings me a tall glass, filled nearly to the brim. It's hard to manage, like I'm trying to balance a sword on the tip of my nose.
Somehow, I manage to have a sip and put it down on the tiles without smashing it.
I tell her to take it away. I tell her I need water in a plastic bottle.
Eventually she comes back with one of my daughter's sippy cups. It's absurdly colourful and confusing to drink from.
My daughter wakes up and starts calling out for my wife, who is on the other toilet.
“Mum will be there in a second, sweetie. Dad's feeling a bit sick.”
I feel guilty for being this high in the same house as my daughter. Thankfully, she doesn't get up and wander into the bathroom to find me in this compromised state. I don't want her to see me like this.
I manage to get myself to my bedroom. My brain is screaming for Wild Wild Life by Talking Heads for some reason, so I put it on Youtube and lie down in bed.
The video clip is pure art. I fully appreciate it. There are no filters. My ego doesn't interfere with my appreciation of the shapes or the colours. I soak it in. I love it.
I twitch violently on the bed, as if I'm being electrocuted.
The Youtube algorithm moves to another Talking Heads song, then to a compilation of random Blues tracks.
My wife texts me from the other room, to see if I'm okay. I start texting her back, but I don't want to text. I need her in the room.
Before I finish writing my message, I hear her footsteps in the hallway.
We talk a bit, then I say “God damn”.
She asks, “What?”
I tell her I can see her nipples pointing through her top.
She says we can have sex but it doesn't mean we're back together.
We've been breaking up for years. It's confusing. I tell her I don't want to have sex, then I change my mind.
She's right at the end of her period. She gets into bed with me and sucks my dick. She scoops a bit of juice from her pussy, and examines it, like she's topping up engine oil. There isn't much blood.
+1:00
We both orgasm at the same time.
The k is mostly gone now.
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