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Bluelight Crew
- Joined
- Jun 10, 2017
- Messages
- 4,122
"Do Horsedroids Dream of Electric Sheep?"
Amphetamine (~.8-1g during 48 hours) – Amphetamine-Emperor – Very experienced
Alcohol (about 4 beers, 1 Cuba Libre) – Beyond Bukowski-experiened
Weed (~2g during 48 hours) – Bastard-child of Cheech and Chong – Very Experienced
Ketamine S-isomer (~400mg) – My Spirit animal is a horsedroid - Semi-experienced
I thought this would be a short report, but no.
It's more like a diary than a report over the specific effects in details.
I was at a friends house, hooking up with mates I hadn't seen for 8 and 10 years.
At this point, we'd been hanging for a month after that long hiatus;
you know the kind of friend where years go by and when you meet them again, you can feel that smile getting plastered on your face, the varm, fuzzy feeling in the belly and it's like a few weeks has only passed?
This night, I hung out with the three closest friends I have left.
Static relations
We were hanging out at my friend, whom we'll call Mr. Robot, since he's a programmer, hacker and computer-genius.
A guy who we'll call Pedro and his girlfriend, who we will call Iris because her eyes are beautifully sharp and cunning and malicious, like two switchblades carving into you, intensely. Lovely person – I've now known her for six months and she's now one of my closest friends, one of the best I've ever had.
Mr. Robots apartment, downtown. He had just moved into a new crib, but didn't have a couch, so earlier that day we had picked up this stained, pale green thing with cigaretteburns and stains and old cheese-doodles and cigarette-butts between the seats for free at this couple.
The woman was very kind. She explained as her hubby stood silently behind her that they had just been to Thailand and was shipping some furniture from there.
The mans eyes screamed sex-tourism and I felt I needed a cigarette.
So there we sat in the soft, corduroy petri-dish of human fluids, drinking beer and talking shit.
I had brought amphetamine and ketamine, Mr. Robot had weed and Tatiana had 6 litres of wine.
After twelve years, there were alot of things to talk about.
Me and Pedro lived next door for the better half of my childhood.
I met Mr. Robot when he defied his religious parents and dropped out of some kind of bible-school to join my high school.
Me and Mr. Robot has this weird bond, always has had, in a good way.
Except our shared interest for vandalism and teenage-rebellion against anything remotely resembling some kind of ”authority”;
we share the same ideals 10 years later. I sometimes think he's my Tyler Durden, or maybe I'm his.
We've got a projekkt Mayhem brewing, at the age of 33. Silly, yes. Hilarious and entertaining, yes, aswell.
A catharsis of the leper that we call culture and our values, rotten to the core?
One can dream.
The night Pedro met his Tatiana, eight years ago, I was with him as I was visiting my folks.
I had just sunk into a spiral of destruction. The first thing he said was,
Man, you look like shit.
And like shit I truly looked; malnourished, sleep-deprived, a blackeye (my ex liked fucking and punching, as did I; not punching though),
Kurt Cobains stolen wardrobe and hair. We where shitfaced within the hour when these two women came up to us.
Me, being recently dumped, recently hooked on Valium and Tramadol and Somas, raging against everything, began grunting.
”Fuck'em, let's get some speed or coke” to their faces, but Pedro convinced me otherwise. His smooth tongue got us invited home to them for drinks.
I ended up in bed with one of them, this beautiful petité hardcore-chick with a serpent coiled around her right arm and up her neck.
While my friend sat in the livingroom with Tatiana and talked, and fell in love, I was blackout-drunk in the room next door and apparently ever so gently whispered in my crust-punk princessess ear,
”Can I fuck you in the ass?”
She said no, of course, to which I replied ”Cool” before trying to sleep.
We ended up fucking loudly anyways, I was told, and I got chlamydia for the first time.
I had supressed the May-I-ravage-your-rectum-situation but was told about it sitting on that stained couch, sweaty, grinning, half-ashamed yet thinking to myself,
”Shit, you guys think that's embarassing?”
Tatiana asked me for some speed. I was happy to supply it; I somehow thought she'd have some kind of grudge towards me, but no.
I had been a gentlemen once I got a tequila.
You were so polite when you asked if she'd like some anal, she almost went with it, she told me.
Slippin'
A few hours and alot of laughs and hilarious tales later, the doorbell rings.
There were, and are, alot of people I don't want to meet in my hometown; I'd either knock their teeth out or get my own kicked out.
Fortunately, I thought as the new guest came, I knew none of them. Someone rolled a joint and I racked up a line of Gary Speed that Philip K. Dick would call 'overkill.'
At this point I was stoned, a bit tipsy, feelin the amphetamine still surging through my veins but dying out, so I bent down and racked that fucker like my life depended on it, never giving it a second glance. A few minutes goes by, and I realize something's off.
I look at Tatiana sniffing her nose. I asked if she had the drabb* on her. She was nodding, yes, I do, absolutely a cigarette burning down to the filter between her crisp, red lips, jaws clenched, pupils saucers. I looked at the baggie infront of me, the one I just snorted a big pile of. This is not speed, I remember saying to Mr. Robot.
Then shit went pretty fast downhill.
By now, more people I didn't know where there. They seemed to come en massé, like insects crawling up through cracks in the pavement.
Some smoked weed, a few did speed, most drank; I sat in the corner of the sofa, feeling the buzz and vibrant feelin of K kicking in, thinking fuck me, fuck me, fuck me, fuck... me?
I closed my eyes and disappeared. I would be anywhere but in the couch, and when I tried to pry my eyes open, everything was distorted. Split scenery. Lego-world.
I got up a few times, doing the ketamin-shuffle, knocking shit over, walking into people and walls, mumbling nonsense about railing Kevin Spacey when Pedro asked how I was.
Then I would open my eyes, despite them being open already, only to find myself at the same spot in that used up tampoon they called couch.
The pace of time had broken. Someone passed a joint and that sent med straight back into my hole, my stardust chimère.
What did Baudelaire say? Ah, yes. Derangement of all the senses.
I stopped trying to be ”normal” and spent the next hour or so talking, sluddering, to people, walking around, playing guitar, smoking a cigarette, puking out a window.
Then I opened my opened eyes again. I was really just drooling in the same corner, eyes occasionally flickerin' and rollin back in my head like a shark that goes for the kill.
I couldn't separate my hands from my feet, my voice from my thoughts, but that's the beauty of K, right?
I remember hearing Pedro laughing, the echoe penetrating my void like the bang of a gun.
I remember looking at Tatiana and saying she's such a wonderful and beautiful person, the gods themselves would kneel if they met her.
When I was finally coming down, I felt slightly psychotic, like Elton when he lived on gin & coke.
I don't remember much from the ordeal, but one thing.
For some reason, somewhere in that realm, I thought about ”Do Androids Dream Electric Sheep?”, but instead of androids.
I thought, ”Do horsedroids dream of electric K? Do they just fall asleep or do they dream?”
I pondered this as the fragmented reality slowly came back. Most people had gone, a few where smiling at me as I used my sleeve to dry the spit from my chin.
This one guy, sitting like two meters from me, leaned forward and simply said ”You lucky fuck. Got more?”
Crashing
When I finally sobered up enough to get up and piss, I talked to Mr. Robot in the hallway.
He showed me a video of me in my varm K-hole; no one should have to see themselves holing.
Like seeing your mothers O-face. Erase. Erase. Erase.
I hadn't gotten up once in about two hours. I had mumbled about horses and shards, about the universe as just a set of movingboxes in a U-haul-truck.
Tatiana came into the hallway, content at my retardation, saying ”you're way more fucked than I remember, harrharrharr”.
She gave me the bag of speed, almost empty. I filled half of a cup of water, dropped the amphetamine that was left and swirled it down.
Sometime during my hole, the guy who had fucked my ex-girlfriend while we were together had stopped by.
He's homie with a guy I've known since I had diapers. He had told my friend about his conquest, who in turn told him he'd tell me, which he did.
He knew me, not in person, but by rumor and reputations, as I knew him.
He suddenly sat beside me and said he didn't know she had a boyfriend and that he'd never do it.
He went silent, and then he said ”I'm sorry”.
I gave him a slurr of a laugh, saying something like carnal desires are meant to be satisfied, and shared his joint with him.
Truly a sweet guy, seemed to have a good heart, but my ego couldn't accept it;
I refused to believe he didn't know my ex had a boyfriend.
Mr. Robot, Pedro and Tatiana wanted to go to a club or something.
We started to get dressed and as we were about to leave, I asked the GF-fucker if he wanted some speed. ”Sure. Thanks man.”
I knew for a fact that he was like me, a junkie consuming any and everything, een though that does NOT excuse what I did next.
I shoved a plate to him with a mighty fine powder chopped, racked, lined and fat.
Before he greedily showed a bill up his nose and vacuumed it, he told me he'd never seen such sparkling speed.
I just smiled.
He became a sloth in the cab going down town, and fell into the arms of club-security.
He made it in the club somehow, but was tossed out after being a vegetable in the bathroom stall, staring at the white ceiling.
My diaper-friend followed him home and asked me what he'd taken.
”Fuck if I know, I can't keep tabs on what people shove up their noses around me.”
Pause.
”Maybe he mistook the K for speed back at Mr. Robot.”
The GF-fucker opened his eyes to a slit and smiled at me.
As I later found out, he had been the guy calling me a 'lucky fuck' earlier.
So, he fucked my girlfriend and got a hefty dose of my last K, got a taxi-ride home while I licked the bag at the club-bathroom, pissed but mostly amused by my own stupidity, kind of scared of myself, that I would dose someone. Well, shit, I got laid that night at least. And I got chlamydia for the second time in my life.
Karmas got a list of names and she goes around sweepin the legs from under assholes like myself.
* 'drabb'; scandoromani for generally heavier drugs; I'm teaching my friends to speak it so we can converse practically anywhere without anyone understanding.
Amphetamine (~.8-1g during 48 hours) – Amphetamine-Emperor – Very experienced
Alcohol (about 4 beers, 1 Cuba Libre) – Beyond Bukowski-experiened
Weed (~2g during 48 hours) – Bastard-child of Cheech and Chong – Very Experienced
Ketamine S-isomer (~400mg) – My Spirit animal is a horsedroid - Semi-experienced
I thought this would be a short report, but no.
It's more like a diary than a report over the specific effects in details.
I was at a friends house, hooking up with mates I hadn't seen for 8 and 10 years.
At this point, we'd been hanging for a month after that long hiatus;
you know the kind of friend where years go by and when you meet them again, you can feel that smile getting plastered on your face, the varm, fuzzy feeling in the belly and it's like a few weeks has only passed?
This night, I hung out with the three closest friends I have left.
Static relations
We were hanging out at my friend, whom we'll call Mr. Robot, since he's a programmer, hacker and computer-genius.
A guy who we'll call Pedro and his girlfriend, who we will call Iris because her eyes are beautifully sharp and cunning and malicious, like two switchblades carving into you, intensely. Lovely person – I've now known her for six months and she's now one of my closest friends, one of the best I've ever had.
Mr. Robots apartment, downtown. He had just moved into a new crib, but didn't have a couch, so earlier that day we had picked up this stained, pale green thing with cigaretteburns and stains and old cheese-doodles and cigarette-butts between the seats for free at this couple.
The woman was very kind. She explained as her hubby stood silently behind her that they had just been to Thailand and was shipping some furniture from there.
The mans eyes screamed sex-tourism and I felt I needed a cigarette.
So there we sat in the soft, corduroy petri-dish of human fluids, drinking beer and talking shit.
I had brought amphetamine and ketamine, Mr. Robot had weed and Tatiana had 6 litres of wine.
After twelve years, there were alot of things to talk about.
Me and Pedro lived next door for the better half of my childhood.
I met Mr. Robot when he defied his religious parents and dropped out of some kind of bible-school to join my high school.
Me and Mr. Robot has this weird bond, always has had, in a good way.
Except our shared interest for vandalism and teenage-rebellion against anything remotely resembling some kind of ”authority”;
we share the same ideals 10 years later. I sometimes think he's my Tyler Durden, or maybe I'm his.
We've got a projekkt Mayhem brewing, at the age of 33. Silly, yes. Hilarious and entertaining, yes, aswell.
A catharsis of the leper that we call culture and our values, rotten to the core?
One can dream.
The night Pedro met his Tatiana, eight years ago, I was with him as I was visiting my folks.
I had just sunk into a spiral of destruction. The first thing he said was,
Man, you look like shit.
And like shit I truly looked; malnourished, sleep-deprived, a blackeye (my ex liked fucking and punching, as did I; not punching though),
Kurt Cobains stolen wardrobe and hair. We where shitfaced within the hour when these two women came up to us.
Me, being recently dumped, recently hooked on Valium and Tramadol and Somas, raging against everything, began grunting.
”Fuck'em, let's get some speed or coke” to their faces, but Pedro convinced me otherwise. His smooth tongue got us invited home to them for drinks.
I ended up in bed with one of them, this beautiful petité hardcore-chick with a serpent coiled around her right arm and up her neck.
While my friend sat in the livingroom with Tatiana and talked, and fell in love, I was blackout-drunk in the room next door and apparently ever so gently whispered in my crust-punk princessess ear,
”Can I fuck you in the ass?”
She said no, of course, to which I replied ”Cool” before trying to sleep.
We ended up fucking loudly anyways, I was told, and I got chlamydia for the first time.
I had supressed the May-I-ravage-your-rectum-situation but was told about it sitting on that stained couch, sweaty, grinning, half-ashamed yet thinking to myself,
”Shit, you guys think that's embarassing?”
Tatiana asked me for some speed. I was happy to supply it; I somehow thought she'd have some kind of grudge towards me, but no.
I had been a gentlemen once I got a tequila.
You were so polite when you asked if she'd like some anal, she almost went with it, she told me.
Slippin'
A few hours and alot of laughs and hilarious tales later, the doorbell rings.
There were, and are, alot of people I don't want to meet in my hometown; I'd either knock their teeth out or get my own kicked out.
Fortunately, I thought as the new guest came, I knew none of them. Someone rolled a joint and I racked up a line of Gary Speed that Philip K. Dick would call 'overkill.'
At this point I was stoned, a bit tipsy, feelin the amphetamine still surging through my veins but dying out, so I bent down and racked that fucker like my life depended on it, never giving it a second glance. A few minutes goes by, and I realize something's off.
I look at Tatiana sniffing her nose. I asked if she had the drabb* on her. She was nodding, yes, I do, absolutely a cigarette burning down to the filter between her crisp, red lips, jaws clenched, pupils saucers. I looked at the baggie infront of me, the one I just snorted a big pile of. This is not speed, I remember saying to Mr. Robot.
Then shit went pretty fast downhill.
By now, more people I didn't know where there. They seemed to come en massé, like insects crawling up through cracks in the pavement.
Some smoked weed, a few did speed, most drank; I sat in the corner of the sofa, feeling the buzz and vibrant feelin of K kicking in, thinking fuck me, fuck me, fuck me, fuck... me?
I closed my eyes and disappeared. I would be anywhere but in the couch, and when I tried to pry my eyes open, everything was distorted. Split scenery. Lego-world.
I got up a few times, doing the ketamin-shuffle, knocking shit over, walking into people and walls, mumbling nonsense about railing Kevin Spacey when Pedro asked how I was.
Then I would open my eyes, despite them being open already, only to find myself at the same spot in that used up tampoon they called couch.
The pace of time had broken. Someone passed a joint and that sent med straight back into my hole, my stardust chimère.
What did Baudelaire say? Ah, yes. Derangement of all the senses.
I stopped trying to be ”normal” and spent the next hour or so talking, sluddering, to people, walking around, playing guitar, smoking a cigarette, puking out a window.
Then I opened my opened eyes again. I was really just drooling in the same corner, eyes occasionally flickerin' and rollin back in my head like a shark that goes for the kill.
I couldn't separate my hands from my feet, my voice from my thoughts, but that's the beauty of K, right?
I remember hearing Pedro laughing, the echoe penetrating my void like the bang of a gun.
I remember looking at Tatiana and saying she's such a wonderful and beautiful person, the gods themselves would kneel if they met her.
When I was finally coming down, I felt slightly psychotic, like Elton when he lived on gin & coke.
I don't remember much from the ordeal, but one thing.
For some reason, somewhere in that realm, I thought about ”Do Androids Dream Electric Sheep?”, but instead of androids.
I thought, ”Do horsedroids dream of electric K? Do they just fall asleep or do they dream?”
I pondered this as the fragmented reality slowly came back. Most people had gone, a few where smiling at me as I used my sleeve to dry the spit from my chin.
This one guy, sitting like two meters from me, leaned forward and simply said ”You lucky fuck. Got more?”
Crashing
When I finally sobered up enough to get up and piss, I talked to Mr. Robot in the hallway.
He showed me a video of me in my varm K-hole; no one should have to see themselves holing.
Like seeing your mothers O-face. Erase. Erase. Erase.
I hadn't gotten up once in about two hours. I had mumbled about horses and shards, about the universe as just a set of movingboxes in a U-haul-truck.
Tatiana came into the hallway, content at my retardation, saying ”you're way more fucked than I remember, harrharrharr”.
She gave me the bag of speed, almost empty. I filled half of a cup of water, dropped the amphetamine that was left and swirled it down.
Sometime during my hole, the guy who had fucked my ex-girlfriend while we were together had stopped by.
He's homie with a guy I've known since I had diapers. He had told my friend about his conquest, who in turn told him he'd tell me, which he did.
He knew me, not in person, but by rumor and reputations, as I knew him.
He suddenly sat beside me and said he didn't know she had a boyfriend and that he'd never do it.
He went silent, and then he said ”I'm sorry”.
I gave him a slurr of a laugh, saying something like carnal desires are meant to be satisfied, and shared his joint with him.
Truly a sweet guy, seemed to have a good heart, but my ego couldn't accept it;
I refused to believe he didn't know my ex had a boyfriend.
Mr. Robot, Pedro and Tatiana wanted to go to a club or something.
We started to get dressed and as we were about to leave, I asked the GF-fucker if he wanted some speed. ”Sure. Thanks man.”
I knew for a fact that he was like me, a junkie consuming any and everything, een though that does NOT excuse what I did next.
I shoved a plate to him with a mighty fine powder chopped, racked, lined and fat.
Before he greedily showed a bill up his nose and vacuumed it, he told me he'd never seen such sparkling speed.
I just smiled.
He became a sloth in the cab going down town, and fell into the arms of club-security.
He made it in the club somehow, but was tossed out after being a vegetable in the bathroom stall, staring at the white ceiling.
My diaper-friend followed him home and asked me what he'd taken.
”Fuck if I know, I can't keep tabs on what people shove up their noses around me.”
Pause.
”Maybe he mistook the K for speed back at Mr. Robot.”
The GF-fucker opened his eyes to a slit and smiled at me.
As I later found out, he had been the guy calling me a 'lucky fuck' earlier.
So, he fucked my girlfriend and got a hefty dose of my last K, got a taxi-ride home while I licked the bag at the club-bathroom, pissed but mostly amused by my own stupidity, kind of scared of myself, that I would dose someone. Well, shit, I got laid that night at least. And I got chlamydia for the second time in my life.
Karmas got a list of names and she goes around sweepin the legs from under assholes like myself.
* 'drabb'; scandoromani for generally heavier drugs; I'm teaching my friends to speak it so we can converse practically anywhere without anyone understanding.
