"Do I contradict myself? Very well, I contradict myself. I am vast. I contain multitudes." -Walt Whitman

:malicious user:

Friday, August 13, 2004

bob gets stoned
pot never really did much for me. actually, pot never did anything for me except help perpetuate my distaste for inhaling the byproducts of combusting leaves. in high school i tried it a handful of times (and a small hand at that), none of which were memorable. except one.

i lived happily between two social strata in high school. i was smart enough to take one or two "advanced honors" classes, so i was in with the intelligentsia. i could attend school rallies, float parades, and parties and be accepted as a member of the moving-on-to-college crowd. i was also oddish enough (plus i had longish hair and listened to tons of floyd) that the slackers and stoners naturally considered me one of their own.

when SAT season rolled around, the honors crowd spent weeks preparing, taking special classes, pouring over practice books, quizzing each other mercilessly. i took firm grasp of the fact that the SATs were supposed to be the type of test for which studying made no difference. it was a good excuse not to put any effort into studying, and thus take away from time better spent drinking beer and listening to dark side of the moon. but i did register for the exams.

the night before the exams, all of my ivy-league friends were locked up, cramming as many facts and theorems into their heads as would fit. so i ended up with chris, one of my closest slacker friends. chris's sister had scored some 'fine columbian' as the song says, and chris insisted i share it with him. being the buddy i am, i complied. of course, being the non-smoker i am, i chose 32 pony bottles of lowenbrau to chase away the burning. and being the fine columbian that it was, it eventually brought on kingsize munchies. which lead to massive consumption of junk food.
which, the next morning, led to a rather unpleasant hangover. a stomach churning, railroad spike through the head, shower-defeating stinky hangover.

i dragged my sorry sodden ass to the gymnasium for the SATs. i excused myself once to use the bathroom to worship the porcelain goddess. i somehow made it through the math and english and back home to pass out for the rest of the day.

weeks later i received my test results. a combined 1530. the highest score in the school.

bob does mescanline
so i'm hanging out with greg one high school night and he offers me a tab of mescaline. neither one of us ever having done this before, we decide to go to the movies, drop it there, and see what happens. about an hour into the film, greg is tripping and i'm feeling nothing. nada. it's like pot, but more expensive. so greg gives me a second tab.

about 5 minutes after the second tab, they both kick in.

it's impossible to stay still in the theatre, and the lights are too much for us. we exit the theatre and walk four miles to the golf course so we don't have to worry so much about people, because we're both getting really paranoid. laying on the grass looking up at the trees and the stars is great. to this day i'll never know how much of what i saw in the sky was really there in the form of shooting stars and airplanes and blowing tree branches, and how much of it my mind invented.
unfortunately the paranoia was getting the best of me, and i was also really worried about going home in this state. greg is already coming down, and he tells me i can crash on his living room couch. i spend the night paranoid and halucinating in a strange house, and i'm thankful (but still tripping) when dawn comes. greg comes in to tell me there's a note on my car windshield. it's from my mother, who passes greg's house on her way to work. i have a job interview at 8am at the local supermarket.

it's around 730am. no time to shower. no change of clothes. and i'm still sorta trippy.
i manage to make it to the interview for the glamourous position of bottle-redemption-center clerk. i think there was one lady interviewing me; i know i saw three, sometimes two sharing three heads. i have no idea what she asked, or what i said.

it must have been ok. they hired me that day.

bob does coke
angel and i returned to the apartment after a weekend away to see what damage the two teenage kids had wreaked. they had done a decent job of cleaning up after the inevitable party, although the trashbags of beer bottles were still sitting in the hallway. at least they admitted they'd had a party. when i was a kid, my folks could always tell that we'd had a party because the house was too clean when they returned.

whilst unpacking in the bedroom, we noticed that the oval floor-standing mirror looked unusually clean. taking a piece of paper, i ran it around the seam between the glass and the wooden frame, and was able to produce a respectable amount of white powder. suspecting the worst, i went to the drugstore and bought a home drug detection kit. returning to the scene of the suspected crime, i blotted some onto the kits blotting paper and sprayed it with reagent, waiting for the tell-tale pink color. to angel's and my relief, the blotting paper remained white. jokingly, i gathered some of the remaining powder and snorted it up my nose, telling angel, "yep, them frosted donuts is a good trip."

just then angel looked at the blotting paper in the trash can. it had gone unmistakeably pink.

uh-oh.

i can honestly say that yes, it is a euphoric high. but when you are deathly afraid of recreational drugs, and flying in uncharted territory, it is no fun. at. all. i made angel lock me in the bathroom for the night, after removing all medications and razors from the medicine chest. for weeks afterwards i was afraid of having flashbacks. everytime i sniffled i knew everyone around me knew i was a crackhead.

which, of course, i'm not. but i am a liar. two of these episodes are true. one is not. spot the lie. answers on monday. welcome to obfuscation 2004.
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