JasperTheReckless
Bluelighter
- Joined
- Nov 1, 2011
- Messages
- 339
It started with a fight.
My dad and I got into an argument about me living at home. All over cleaning. It hurt so bad this time, not like other times. I realized he's too old, stuck in his ways, not able to change, much less, self motivated to. So I went to the store. To drown the feelings, filter the bad vibes out with some good ol' high school high. OTC style.
I got a ride to the local grocery, and acquired three boxes of CCC's. I went home. I proceeded to crush them to a powder, and dissolve 48 pills into water. 1,440mg. I filtered the extract after two hours of mixing and an hour of settling. I poured it through a folded T-shirt. The shirt was red. I scraped the gunk off the shirt every few pours and wiped it off against the brim of the glass.
I mixed the gritty concoction with two cans of Coke Zero, and lemon juice; to null the flavor. The first glass was 2/3 the final product, while the other was 1/3, still a dose, and good enough to be a chaser.
I dosed the heavy cup at 10:30pm.
First plateau within fifteen minutes, compliments of a starved body.
Second plateau within the first hour.
Drank the light cup, swished it around, finished it.
Third plateau snuck up on me during the movie I was watching last night; I watched Brooklyn's Finest and Children Of Men. The DXM made both movies very emotional, as the concepts were pretty heavy ones. Life and Death. I cried a little I think. I fell asleep talking on facebook, around two or three in the morning, but this part of the report isn't what i'm here to tell. I'm just setting it up.
I woke up this morning, at 9am, and was at the local grocery by 930. I grabbed two boxes of CCC's (480mg ea (and a bottle of Robo, (450mg) My best friend (also my sitter) and I proceeded to the next town over, to watch some movies until I peaked and cracked through from fourth to sigma, and then meditate and walk my mind. We watched Repeaters. I had snagged a tube of NO2 from jewel as well, so when I felt the second round of C's punch through, I took a full lung of NO2 and slowly exhaled. The room grew alive. I was pushed deep into my skull, watching from behind my eyes as the world passed by in front. I noted the time and laid back and stared at the ceiling to appreciate how fucked up I was; on drugs, and in the head. Time seems to fold up and slip in my pocket, out of mind, slipping away quick. An hour was up, I popped 8 more C's, and chased them with a mouthful of Robo.
I was, liquid. I realize my place here in the world. I'm here to affect others. I'm here to fill in the gaps in life, so other people can walk an unbroken path. I lay back and reflect on this chunk of thought, pop out eight more and chase them with some syrup.
I fall asleep for a little while and when I wake up, I am stoned as hell, slizzard like a guilty fucking lizard. I stand up, and something breaks, shatters. All of a sudden, my high is now clear, detailed, specific, pure, and the body load feels far different from plateau trips. I am now in a Plasma High; detailed, intricate, visuals everywhere, yet, under the surface. I look the the tree out in the front lawn, and it's a swirl of yellows and blues and greens, under the green pine needle surface.
I zoom through the afternoon plans, and make the decision to go back to my house, and sneak past the parents, and post up in my room for the night.
I get in, I pull it off. Pupils are dinnerplates, and my body reeks of Dxo, but I make it in. I come upstairs and put on a movie, I choose The Departed. Very sad movie, very solid, and good acting. I lost the second half of the movie however; thankfully I've already seen it. I began closing my eyes and seeing. I'm in a living room, I kneel down and reach under the couch and pull out a gun. My heart skips a beat, and I realize, I am holding a tool to control lives, I can put a stop to any thought I want, all I have to do is come back here, and get the gun. It's odd how clear my mind pictures it, detailed, down to the engravings. I believe it's a Beretta 92FS. The finish is eerily polished, perfectly reflective on every metal surface. I look down the barrel and it's black, no, darker than black. I decide it's the real deal and tuck it under a cushion. I'm now in a mountain range, outside, but not cold. I need to figure out how to get down, or I will starve and die. I relate this to me being stuck in my life, not knowing which direction to head. If I don't take some kind of action, I'll forget how to and end up losing anyway.
I open my eyes and tear up, I blink it away, and make the decision to tell my mom whats bothering me, because I don't have the balls to do it without a drug in my blood. The unique way that DXM goes about letting me do things I normally wouldn't, is so subtle, it wows me. It's like a tiny voice buried deep in my mind that whispers so quietly, it makes you listen, makes you listen, so much more effective that yelling would be.
It feels like my brain is a machine. Thousands, millions of tiny gears, cogs, turning, grinding away. Steam vents, ratios change, representing a change in point of view. But when that quiet dark voice tells me that I should die, a gear locks up, and the process is interrupted. That gear must be dealt with, or soon, the whole machine will break down; I will die; the voice will win.
There are so many gears, that when one locks up, the majority keep spinning, but pull the rest of the machine tight, and sooner or later, that wiggle room will be used up. Then it's the zero hour, and there are no more options.
I tell my mom what I'm worried about; my Dad. He is terminally ill, and the past few years, we haven't been getting along.
I tell her, if, when he dies, we are on bad terms, I will commit suicide.
My mom talks to me, and then I go back to my room. I put on my favorite song, and lay on my back, and stare at the ceiling, and process how my body feels. I feel the pricks of serotonin syndrome, trying to make themselves known, and I feel my muscles complaining from over use; I can't feel how much I exert them on this much dex. My veins stand out like bridge struts, my blood pressure is sky is sky high, and I can't remember the last thing I ate, or if I drank any water today, yesterday. I need to solve these problems.
Sigma is a double edged sword, and the fainthearted will not benefit from it's use. It is a monster, who is neither good, nor bad, but something else entirely. Let it run unchecked in your head, and it will bring you to your knees, and it will crush you. It is my last resort tool to unlocking an answer, my plan Z. It's saved me from destruction twice in the last year, and I hope this time is no different. I don't understand how drugs do what they do to us, sure they affect brain chemistry, and thought processes; but there's something more, something I don't know how to put in words, something I could never explain to someone who hasn't taken a drug before, maybe couldn't even explain completely to another drugger. But with all the evils, and dangers they pose, they hold a single hope for me. Under all the destruction, and morbidity, there is the power of hope that they provide me. They give me a little more time, to hold on, and that little bit of time is infinitely valuable, because I can figure out one more reason to live.
This is my fourth time visiting sigma, but only the second time I've done so on purpose; and recognize it for what it can be.
Thanks for reading. Ask any questions you might have, i'll answer best I can.
My dad and I got into an argument about me living at home. All over cleaning. It hurt so bad this time, not like other times. I realized he's too old, stuck in his ways, not able to change, much less, self motivated to. So I went to the store. To drown the feelings, filter the bad vibes out with some good ol' high school high. OTC style.
I got a ride to the local grocery, and acquired three boxes of CCC's. I went home. I proceeded to crush them to a powder, and dissolve 48 pills into water. 1,440mg. I filtered the extract after two hours of mixing and an hour of settling. I poured it through a folded T-shirt. The shirt was red. I scraped the gunk off the shirt every few pours and wiped it off against the brim of the glass.
I mixed the gritty concoction with two cans of Coke Zero, and lemon juice; to null the flavor. The first glass was 2/3 the final product, while the other was 1/3, still a dose, and good enough to be a chaser.
I dosed the heavy cup at 10:30pm.
First plateau within fifteen minutes, compliments of a starved body.
Second plateau within the first hour.
Drank the light cup, swished it around, finished it.
Third plateau snuck up on me during the movie I was watching last night; I watched Brooklyn's Finest and Children Of Men. The DXM made both movies very emotional, as the concepts were pretty heavy ones. Life and Death. I cried a little I think. I fell asleep talking on facebook, around two or three in the morning, but this part of the report isn't what i'm here to tell. I'm just setting it up.
I woke up this morning, at 9am, and was at the local grocery by 930. I grabbed two boxes of CCC's (480mg ea (and a bottle of Robo, (450mg) My best friend (also my sitter) and I proceeded to the next town over, to watch some movies until I peaked and cracked through from fourth to sigma, and then meditate and walk my mind. We watched Repeaters. I had snagged a tube of NO2 from jewel as well, so when I felt the second round of C's punch through, I took a full lung of NO2 and slowly exhaled. The room grew alive. I was pushed deep into my skull, watching from behind my eyes as the world passed by in front. I noted the time and laid back and stared at the ceiling to appreciate how fucked up I was; on drugs, and in the head. Time seems to fold up and slip in my pocket, out of mind, slipping away quick. An hour was up, I popped 8 more C's, and chased them with a mouthful of Robo.
I was, liquid. I realize my place here in the world. I'm here to affect others. I'm here to fill in the gaps in life, so other people can walk an unbroken path. I lay back and reflect on this chunk of thought, pop out eight more and chase them with some syrup.
I fall asleep for a little while and when I wake up, I am stoned as hell, slizzard like a guilty fucking lizard. I stand up, and something breaks, shatters. All of a sudden, my high is now clear, detailed, specific, pure, and the body load feels far different from plateau trips. I am now in a Plasma High; detailed, intricate, visuals everywhere, yet, under the surface. I look the the tree out in the front lawn, and it's a swirl of yellows and blues and greens, under the green pine needle surface.
I zoom through the afternoon plans, and make the decision to go back to my house, and sneak past the parents, and post up in my room for the night.
I get in, I pull it off. Pupils are dinnerplates, and my body reeks of Dxo, but I make it in. I come upstairs and put on a movie, I choose The Departed. Very sad movie, very solid, and good acting. I lost the second half of the movie however; thankfully I've already seen it. I began closing my eyes and seeing. I'm in a living room, I kneel down and reach under the couch and pull out a gun. My heart skips a beat, and I realize, I am holding a tool to control lives, I can put a stop to any thought I want, all I have to do is come back here, and get the gun. It's odd how clear my mind pictures it, detailed, down to the engravings. I believe it's a Beretta 92FS. The finish is eerily polished, perfectly reflective on every metal surface. I look down the barrel and it's black, no, darker than black. I decide it's the real deal and tuck it under a cushion. I'm now in a mountain range, outside, but not cold. I need to figure out how to get down, or I will starve and die. I relate this to me being stuck in my life, not knowing which direction to head. If I don't take some kind of action, I'll forget how to and end up losing anyway.
I open my eyes and tear up, I blink it away, and make the decision to tell my mom whats bothering me, because I don't have the balls to do it without a drug in my blood. The unique way that DXM goes about letting me do things I normally wouldn't, is so subtle, it wows me. It's like a tiny voice buried deep in my mind that whispers so quietly, it makes you listen, makes you listen, so much more effective that yelling would be.
It feels like my brain is a machine. Thousands, millions of tiny gears, cogs, turning, grinding away. Steam vents, ratios change, representing a change in point of view. But when that quiet dark voice tells me that I should die, a gear locks up, and the process is interrupted. That gear must be dealt with, or soon, the whole machine will break down; I will die; the voice will win.
There are so many gears, that when one locks up, the majority keep spinning, but pull the rest of the machine tight, and sooner or later, that wiggle room will be used up. Then it's the zero hour, and there are no more options.
I tell my mom what I'm worried about; my Dad. He is terminally ill, and the past few years, we haven't been getting along.
I tell her, if, when he dies, we are on bad terms, I will commit suicide.
My mom talks to me, and then I go back to my room. I put on my favorite song, and lay on my back, and stare at the ceiling, and process how my body feels. I feel the pricks of serotonin syndrome, trying to make themselves known, and I feel my muscles complaining from over use; I can't feel how much I exert them on this much dex. My veins stand out like bridge struts, my blood pressure is sky is sky high, and I can't remember the last thing I ate, or if I drank any water today, yesterday. I need to solve these problems.
Sigma is a double edged sword, and the fainthearted will not benefit from it's use. It is a monster, who is neither good, nor bad, but something else entirely. Let it run unchecked in your head, and it will bring you to your knees, and it will crush you. It is my last resort tool to unlocking an answer, my plan Z. It's saved me from destruction twice in the last year, and I hope this time is no different. I don't understand how drugs do what they do to us, sure they affect brain chemistry, and thought processes; but there's something more, something I don't know how to put in words, something I could never explain to someone who hasn't taken a drug before, maybe couldn't even explain completely to another drugger. But with all the evils, and dangers they pose, they hold a single hope for me. Under all the destruction, and morbidity, there is the power of hope that they provide me. They give me a little more time, to hold on, and that little bit of time is infinitely valuable, because I can figure out one more reason to live.
This is my fourth time visiting sigma, but only the second time I've done so on purpose; and recognize it for what it can be.
Thanks for reading. Ask any questions you might have, i'll answer best I can.
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