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Bluelight Crew
- Joined
- Jun 10, 2017
- Messages
- 4,122
I'm gonna post the rest of this mindbendning experience tomorrow - I gotta get some shuteye. Big day tomorrow.
Until then, hopefully this might bring someone some enjoyment.
Stoned to Death on Sass
Gypsy-witchcraft & Time-Travelling Glowsticks
This was the first time I was high as an adult. I was 23, and beside two mushroom-trips and a hefty amount of cannabis, this was the first time I felt really HIGH and for the first of many times to come, I realized I wanted to spend the rest of my life being as high as possible, straining away from the burden of being sober, fully consciouss and aware of my sourrundings. Little did I know back then, that this would begin a decade long spiral down through the inferno of the chemical heavens and hells.
1
… the gang-gang-gang
Friday, 6th of December
09:33, BIG-ASS-CORPORATION, Oslo
Twiggy comes by me in the workshop. He's collecting paper from each one of us to meet up with Reneé in his company rape-van. Reneé is drug-dealer.
He used to work at the postal-office, but opened his own buissness a few months back. I think it's some kind of delivery-service, like UPS, and that he illegaly snatched alot of the clientelle the postal-service had, but that might just have been the xanax and beer talking when he told us about it. Anyhow, it suited him, and us, perfectly – having his own company allowed him to be an illicit pharmacy on wheels. Earlier that week he told Pikey Q he was going to pick up a solid key-rock of MDMA. Pikey booked 5 grams for us.
”Did you get the ounce from Reneé?”
Even though Twiggy is the stoner of stoners, he has the body language of a tweaker who's been up for six days and is crashing, fast.
Dancing on the spot, always that grin on his face, the grin of a serial killer. Neat, tidy. Neurotic. Skeletal.
I keep staring at the snowboard I'm trying to repair. It's surface looks like a teenage face assaulted by a violent strain of acne.
”You got it, right man?”
”Yeah man, I got it, dude,” I reply, fucking up the skiis I'm trying to fix.
The melted plastic looks like tears on the dry surface, black drops of sorrow everywhere except where I wanted to have it. He's still grinning as he leaves me in the workshop.
Twiggy works in the cashier. I fix skiis and bicycles. Mostly I try not to work too hard though, which was the primary subject of this workshop. I happened to work with two deadbeats during this period. We'd clock each other in despite we weren't at work, let the hungover one sleep in a hidden bed of wellpapp, stole parts for our own bikes and whatnot; we didn't like the corporate cheerleading, the incompetent manager, the greedy, power-trippin' middlemen and the overachieving drones working their fingers to the bone.
No sir, if you did your job to well you couldn't ride with us. We're all a part of the same conglomerate here in Norway. They own our competitors, just like they own the two biggest electronic-chains. People thinkthey're making a choice when they chose this store over that; they don't, not really. The same pigs are getting fat. The same three, four names re-appear everywhere, always with the biggest chains and companies. If they don't buy you out, they chew you up, spit you out and make you pay for whatever stains you leave on the rug. I met the head dick in charge once, one of Norways wealthiest men. After Brevik pulled his stunt, the pressure wave from his bomb blew every window within 500 meters reach into a million tiny, shiny raindrops. Our wall in the workshop with rims and wheels and frames was built upon an old entrance, which caved in and if anyone of us had been there at that specific moment, that person would surely have been reduced to something akin to a vegetable under all the metal and sharp edges.
The big cheese came a few days later to show that he what, cared? HAH!
More than anything he seemed bored and when I shook his hand and looked into his old man eyes soon to be cloudy from cataracts, it was like staring at a fucking lion at a zoo.
I digress. Fuck that suit.
Regarding our work-ethic, the only exception is Pikey Q, who's in charge of the shoe-department and takes an immense pride in his work ethic.
I've gotten him to steal a pair of shoes for me. A classic is tearing up a seam up on a new pair of Air Nikes, grab a new pair and send a D.O.A-notification to Nike, who never responds or questioned all the shoes we sent back with cut seams, because why would they?
They're fucking Nike. They don't give a single fuck about a couple of sneakers being boosted.
At 09:27, Twiggy comes by me to show me the crystals and has the same grin on his face, still. Like I said, this man embodies the ultimate stoner-stereotype.
Except he's Israelian and has four years of traning and missions for the Isra-army. He can skin you with a blunt spoon and I think he'd still be wearing that grin while scooping out your eyes. I asked him once if he'd ever kill someone. He never said yes or no, but mumbled between bong hits about a mistake and an AK47, a woman and a sixteen year old new-age hippie-freak. He said that, well, the sixteen year old was wrong; love is not all you need. Kevlar is usefull. In fact, it's one of the many side-effects of conscioussness that is completely and utterly useless. Love kills everything but love. We tell ourselves the world is spinning on it's axis for love, but it's the soldiers and their blood that keeps the globe slowly waltzing around itself.
”Like fucking gems stolen from some pirate-mine in Ethiopia,” he exclaims, holding a crystal up towards the flickering lights in the ceiling.
He then looks around with the robotic and paranoid movements of a tweaker caught in a delusion.
”Bro, do you have some twigs on you now? Like, I could really use a hit from the coke-can or two.” He's not grinning anymore. He looks haunted, terrified.
”No,” I tell him, ”but Kate (ex.gf) will have it here around ten.”
”Alright, ten o'clock,” he says, ”ten.” The grin is returning to accompany his bloodshot eyes. At 10:06, Twiggy came to ask when, do I have the weed yet?
Handing over my keys, I tell him to check my locker and he smiles voraciously.
”You coming?”
”Nah man, I got to finish up here so I can bail at 14.30.”
Twiggy disappears and I put The Brian Jonestown Massacre on as I proceed to fix skiis and snowboards. Uneventufully, the rest of the day passed like a sad, wet, black cloud.
Pikey came by the workshop around 14.15 and told me I had 10 minutes to get to the garage. Pikey is tall and slender, his body looking like a greek god sculpted from marmour. He's the only one of us who's actually a bit sporty – the rest of us are as athletic as the Manson-family on tropanes and too much wine. I'm standing, my chest is full of butterflies with razor-wings. The anticipation of my first chemical buzz after dabblin' in weed and mushrooms had me in shivers. As I'm fantizasing about my neon-night to come, Twiggy and Pikeys friend Sketch comes rollin' down into the garage in small Fiat, a rental from OK/Q8. We were just gettin into Workaholics so we start drawing penises and other phallic and paganistic symbols reekin' of teenage-angst, still at 23, on the whiteboard of the Espen, head dick of the warehouse.
We're all victims of the Peter Pan-Syndrome here.
Inside the van, Twiggy starts rollin' blunts to The Growlers gypsy-surf music and we continue climbing the slopey valley-side. Twiggy fills the van with smoke to the point past parody; if a copper would've seen us they'd pull us over thinking the van was set aflames.
After a two hour drive and three hour walk in knee-deep snow, we arrive at the chateau that will host our decadent and hedonistic behavior for the upcoming 36 hours.
To be continued.
Until then, hopefully this might bring someone some enjoyment.
Stoned to Death on Sass
Gypsy-witchcraft & Time-Travelling Glowsticks
This was the first time I was high as an adult. I was 23, and beside two mushroom-trips and a hefty amount of cannabis, this was the first time I felt really HIGH and for the first of many times to come, I realized I wanted to spend the rest of my life being as high as possible, straining away from the burden of being sober, fully consciouss and aware of my sourrundings. Little did I know back then, that this would begin a decade long spiral down through the inferno of the chemical heavens and hells.
1
… the gang-gang-gang
Friday, 6th of December
09:33, BIG-ASS-CORPORATION, Oslo
Twiggy comes by me in the workshop. He's collecting paper from each one of us to meet up with Reneé in his company rape-van. Reneé is drug-dealer.
He used to work at the postal-office, but opened his own buissness a few months back. I think it's some kind of delivery-service, like UPS, and that he illegaly snatched alot of the clientelle the postal-service had, but that might just have been the xanax and beer talking when he told us about it. Anyhow, it suited him, and us, perfectly – having his own company allowed him to be an illicit pharmacy on wheels. Earlier that week he told Pikey Q he was going to pick up a solid key-rock of MDMA. Pikey booked 5 grams for us.
”Did you get the ounce from Reneé?”
Even though Twiggy is the stoner of stoners, he has the body language of a tweaker who's been up for six days and is crashing, fast.
Dancing on the spot, always that grin on his face, the grin of a serial killer. Neat, tidy. Neurotic. Skeletal.
I keep staring at the snowboard I'm trying to repair. It's surface looks like a teenage face assaulted by a violent strain of acne.
”You got it, right man?”
”Yeah man, I got it, dude,” I reply, fucking up the skiis I'm trying to fix.
The melted plastic looks like tears on the dry surface, black drops of sorrow everywhere except where I wanted to have it. He's still grinning as he leaves me in the workshop.
Twiggy works in the cashier. I fix skiis and bicycles. Mostly I try not to work too hard though, which was the primary subject of this workshop. I happened to work with two deadbeats during this period. We'd clock each other in despite we weren't at work, let the hungover one sleep in a hidden bed of wellpapp, stole parts for our own bikes and whatnot; we didn't like the corporate cheerleading, the incompetent manager, the greedy, power-trippin' middlemen and the overachieving drones working their fingers to the bone.
No sir, if you did your job to well you couldn't ride with us. We're all a part of the same conglomerate here in Norway. They own our competitors, just like they own the two biggest electronic-chains. People thinkthey're making a choice when they chose this store over that; they don't, not really. The same pigs are getting fat. The same three, four names re-appear everywhere, always with the biggest chains and companies. If they don't buy you out, they chew you up, spit you out and make you pay for whatever stains you leave on the rug. I met the head dick in charge once, one of Norways wealthiest men. After Brevik pulled his stunt, the pressure wave from his bomb blew every window within 500 meters reach into a million tiny, shiny raindrops. Our wall in the workshop with rims and wheels and frames was built upon an old entrance, which caved in and if anyone of us had been there at that specific moment, that person would surely have been reduced to something akin to a vegetable under all the metal and sharp edges.
The big cheese came a few days later to show that he what, cared? HAH!
More than anything he seemed bored and when I shook his hand and looked into his old man eyes soon to be cloudy from cataracts, it was like staring at a fucking lion at a zoo.
I digress. Fuck that suit.
Regarding our work-ethic, the only exception is Pikey Q, who's in charge of the shoe-department and takes an immense pride in his work ethic.
I've gotten him to steal a pair of shoes for me. A classic is tearing up a seam up on a new pair of Air Nikes, grab a new pair and send a D.O.A-notification to Nike, who never responds or questioned all the shoes we sent back with cut seams, because why would they?
They're fucking Nike. They don't give a single fuck about a couple of sneakers being boosted.
At 09:27, Twiggy comes by me to show me the crystals and has the same grin on his face, still. Like I said, this man embodies the ultimate stoner-stereotype.
Except he's Israelian and has four years of traning and missions for the Isra-army. He can skin you with a blunt spoon and I think he'd still be wearing that grin while scooping out your eyes. I asked him once if he'd ever kill someone. He never said yes or no, but mumbled between bong hits about a mistake and an AK47, a woman and a sixteen year old new-age hippie-freak. He said that, well, the sixteen year old was wrong; love is not all you need. Kevlar is usefull. In fact, it's one of the many side-effects of conscioussness that is completely and utterly useless. Love kills everything but love. We tell ourselves the world is spinning on it's axis for love, but it's the soldiers and their blood that keeps the globe slowly waltzing around itself.
”Like fucking gems stolen from some pirate-mine in Ethiopia,” he exclaims, holding a crystal up towards the flickering lights in the ceiling.
He then looks around with the robotic and paranoid movements of a tweaker caught in a delusion.
”Bro, do you have some twigs on you now? Like, I could really use a hit from the coke-can or two.” He's not grinning anymore. He looks haunted, terrified.
”No,” I tell him, ”but Kate (ex.gf) will have it here around ten.”
”Alright, ten o'clock,” he says, ”ten.” The grin is returning to accompany his bloodshot eyes. At 10:06, Twiggy came to ask when, do I have the weed yet?
Handing over my keys, I tell him to check my locker and he smiles voraciously.
”You coming?”
”Nah man, I got to finish up here so I can bail at 14.30.”
Twiggy disappears and I put The Brian Jonestown Massacre on as I proceed to fix skiis and snowboards. Uneventufully, the rest of the day passed like a sad, wet, black cloud.
Pikey came by the workshop around 14.15 and told me I had 10 minutes to get to the garage. Pikey is tall and slender, his body looking like a greek god sculpted from marmour. He's the only one of us who's actually a bit sporty – the rest of us are as athletic as the Manson-family on tropanes and too much wine. I'm standing, my chest is full of butterflies with razor-wings. The anticipation of my first chemical buzz after dabblin' in weed and mushrooms had me in shivers. As I'm fantizasing about my neon-night to come, Twiggy and Pikeys friend Sketch comes rollin' down into the garage in small Fiat, a rental from OK/Q8. We were just gettin into Workaholics so we start drawing penises and other phallic and paganistic symbols reekin' of teenage-angst, still at 23, on the whiteboard of the Espen, head dick of the warehouse.
We're all victims of the Peter Pan-Syndrome here.
Inside the van, Twiggy starts rollin' blunts to The Growlers gypsy-surf music and we continue climbing the slopey valley-side. Twiggy fills the van with smoke to the point past parody; if a copper would've seen us they'd pull us over thinking the van was set aflames.
After a two hour drive and three hour walk in knee-deep snow, we arrive at the chateau that will host our decadent and hedonistic behavior for the upcoming 36 hours.
To be continued.
