Acid Trip

Look beside you, at the large table. It’s made from wood. Think about the wood, the wood types. You know quite a few of them. Mahogany, Oak, Birch, Maple, Ash. Ash, Baseball bats are made from ash. Tournament-obligatory baseball bats. Like the ones you had to use in Plymouth Indiana. Indiana will be something you’ll always remember. Blunt force days in the sun. Clandestine nights of haze. Rootbeer flavoured vodka 26’s. Wal Mart. Vacant parking lot fourth of July firecrackers. Nerf Football Trebuchets. Police cruisers. Large trucks. Methwatch Manny. Simpler times, in which you haven’t been staring at your housemate for 2 minutes straight, in which he hasn’t been staring back. You’ve been zoned out, he hasn’t. Laugh. Laugh hysterically, because this big joke is just so goddamn funny. Necros’s Genji. You feel fantastic. Paint mixers. The smell of Harvey’s. Get ahold of yourself. No, let go. There is not a drug in this life that would ever top this.

Suddenly you’re alone again. This needs to be fixed. Scurry to the next room. Glass door, cracked. Homecoming memories. Back to the hunt. Ah, you’ve narrowed in, a human grazes the pastures. Watching the basketball game. Such normalcy. Now is your chance to shine. With your elevated mental state, you can thoroughly fuck with him.

“Who’s winning?”

That oughta do the trick. Wait a minute. That wasn’t even a shenanigan, and he answers it justly.

“Not my team.”

“Any time I ask that, your team is never winning.”

“So stop asking.”

Great Scott he’s right. But he needs to calm down. After all, I’m only breaking his balls. He didn’t know the right answer anyways. I’m winning, triumphing over the forces of good and evil. Even now as we speak. He’s trapped within the game. It’s clear, we’re not on the same page. He’s not even reading. He’s a great human companion. But I’ve transcended the humans in this state. This is not the environment for me while I’m like this. I’ve got to go find someone that feels what I’m feeling. Sfogliatelle.

You run upstairs. Your enlightened counterpart should be close by. Something melodic reverberates off the walls. Follow it. Your destination lies at the source. You reach the warm hub of the world. Reunite with the only person in the whole town that might understand you right now. Request a song. Then another. Music sounds better when bathing in euphoria. Shift in place. Crack your back. Don’t fear the Reaper. November Rain. Carry on Wayward Son. Killer Queen. Listen closely. Marie Antoinette never actually said that. “Them” were hungry. What would cake do?

Your thoughts start to regain coherency. So you find yourself back downstairs, staring at George Constanza’s shifting face. Seinfeld is the best comedy show there ever was. Take in the full poster, the fine art of seduction, hilarious. But wait, no, that can’t be right. What does he know about seduction? He’s not like us. Forget about it, let’s have a smoke, let’s have a walk. You desire food again, and sour candy probably tastes like a laser light show right now. You say something cool, so you put it on your quote wall, claiming that your housemate said it. You can’t put yourself on the quote wall. That’s the first rule.

On the walk, you develop and diminish absolutes. Everybody should be able to live like this at all times. Everyone should be able to constantly feel exactly how we’re feeling now. Then again… No. Give some second thoughts, realize that this, is degenerate behaviour, and nothing would ever get done. Once you notice that you can vibrate your hands like Wally West, or that the icy stalagmites on the street side are constantly changing shape, your responsibilities take a seat on the back burner. Responsibilities, can be dealt with tomorrow, it is up to us now to revel in the present moment. Which, on this particular psychedelic, is never something too difficult to return to.

The tail end of your marvelous trip sets in. You still feel fantastic, and with this feeling comes an ungodly degree of clarity you didn’t possess prior. You’re articulate again, and like a cripple who sprints down the pathway after being given new legs by the messiah, you waste no time running your mouth. You ooze profundity, you have an enhanced understanding of life and love that parallels that of those responsible for Pink Floyd’s lyricism. Speaking of, you’re part way through Dark Side of the Moon, which allows you to hear something extraordinary. “The sun is the same, in a relative way, but you’re older.” You sit bewildered for a moment, as that single line encapsulates the entirety of your life. It ropes human essence into twelve simple words. It causes you to reminisce about the times of old, in which you’d stare up at the sun without registering it as a constant. Woodchip filled parks, drives to Florida, afternoon baseball, Sunday couches, Spanish class window seats, Landscaping. Each instance represents the passage of time, an older version of oneself that glances up at Ra’s amulet and knows that age is all that has truly changed. Everything else remains the same, in a relative way.

Thinking this almost saddens you for a moment, but there’s no way we’d let anything like that hold lasting effect. It isn’t too difficult to accept it and keep moving, The Great Gig in the Sky has already begun. This particular substance allows no resting place for negative thoughts or feelings of insignificance, that’s the beauty of Lysergic Acid Diethylamide. Any adventure you choose to embark upon will be accompanied by the intuitive sense that whatever you’re doing is right, that you are a surging beacon of all that is presently good, and that your isolated corner of the world is an important one. For the 8 hours following that tab hitting your tongue, you feel, as strong as anything you’ve ever felt, that you will be victorious in this life.

Now, go back to that table – you need to write this stuff down.

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