Confessions of a first time LSD user
by Submitted Anonymously, uweekly.com
March 9th 2011
Sounds like a pretty lame trip, go into
the woods or something with friends and redefine all of your reality. 3
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The thought of my home just off North Campus had never seemed so appealing
as dusk gave way to darkness.
I was soaking wet, wandering through the labyrinth that lies just east of
High Street. Looks grim; I'm lost. The street signs I relied on for
navigation were unintelligible, resembling the unformed cursive of a second
grader. My only true compass, the moon, resonated a bright shade of purple,
and it was singing the national anthem in a husky baritone. The right angles
of sidewalks and streets were warped and flowing; they were straight from
the dark illustrations of the pages of "Oh, The Places You'll Go."
In my hour of great despair, my Virgil came in the form of Mario, a sexy
Luigi and a third wheel werewolf. Despite my transparent fear and an awkward
plea for direction, they were very courteous and sounded suspiciously like
college coeds heading to a party. Ignoring my eccentricity, they confidently
extended their gloved hands and paw, pointing me in the direction of my own
address.
Needless to say, my first experience with LSD could not have transpired
under more uniquely trippy circumstances: Halloween weekend at OSU.
A friend from my campus dining job referred me to Vincent, the kind of
low-key, honest drug dealer any substance abusing student would be grateful
to have saved in their contact list. I wish I could refer him to you. The
last of many middlemen, he wasn't cheap, but you got to support the little
guy trying to make the honest dollar. Fifty bucks for five hits, and I was
on my way.
I began hallucinating while lying against a tree in the Southwest quarter of
the Oval shortly before 4 in the afternoon. Set off by a heavy chest and a
slight headache, my first visuals were the slow and content breathing of the
trees about me, expelling their oxygen in a fine gray mist. I felt
self-conscious; the faces in the clouds were all holding eye contact with
me. Was that passing tour group speaking Spanish? The urge to get moving was
overwhelming, but the pathway behaved like a loose trampoline. Who gave
Newton the day off?
The animals in the Orton Geological Museum were still dead; they were just
mad as hell about it now. The Giant Ground Sloth wrestled against its
supporting wires with perpetual force, causing the ceiling tiles to bow from
the pressure. A milky sweat streamed over her mud red bones, dripping onto
the flashing checkerboard pattern that had formed on the floor.
From my periphery, I caught the T-Rex skull winking at me. Fossils of
insects scurried along the stone they were engraved in. Coca Cola's logo
shimmered on the far wall. Father Time was on strike as I tried to read the
vibrating text on the placards that accompanied each display.
I'd nearly lost any reference point to reality, but it returned with an
employee's forceful throat clearing. Closing time.
Images of intricate skeletons and mourning royal playing cards greeted me
along the walls of the RPAC. Every surface was a master artisan's easel.
Nametags, gym bags, pretty girls and water bottles. Give the nice lady your
card and you can go for a swim. What a deal, they even threw in the free
elevator ride.
Stripped to my boxers, the surface of the lap pool shattered as I
cannon-balled to my joyful demise. Interred in a pit of cool quicksand, yet
all was well; I was doomed from the get go anyway.
Total silence followed by total regression; I blew bubbles, dolphin kicked
and pioneered the world's first game of solo Marco Polo. I even pissed in
the pool for the first time in a decade. Sorry about that one, lane partner.
After getting lost and getting saved by Mario and company on my walk home, I
stumbled in my door to find a police officer in my living room. Shit. Maybe
I could talk my way out of it... she looked young enough to be a rookie. A
rookie with.... cleavage and knee-high boots. Is this how they get
confessions these days?
She was playing beer pong on my table against a beautiful red headed fire
fighter. A cute scantily clad nurse and a bare stomached South American
princess were exchanging ice breaking conversation with my roommates over
Four Lokos. Mariachi music played in my head. My friends were dressed in
costume like a dog, a pig and my greatest nemesis: a hipster. Introductions
were made; warm beers were thrust into my hands. Black lights and wet
clothes, dilated pupils and stammered diction. Hell of a way to meet the
neighbor babes.
Too truthful for flirtation, I needed an outlet for a mind that couldn't
escape itself. To the party. A cornucopia of King Cobras, stolen jello
shots. No identity, no body, no urges. The drive to get laid from a
sterilized angle. You're more present tense when you're on the field than
when you're in the stands, but you can see the plays fold and ripple out
better in the bleachers. You understand the madness of an equation that
doesn't balance out - how can an outsider understand the thrill of bouncing
from sh*t kitchen to kitchen looking for that lay with cups of liquid
fermented grain to aid the process of replacing ourselves? Saliva and
mascara, seduction and sweat. Nothing but a goddamn documentary on the
Nature Channel. A fruitful watering hole for the victors. Sensory overload.
I awoke the next afternoon to find my notes for this story soaked in pool
water, alcohol and my roommate's vomit. I'd only managed to scribble one
thing in my notebook the rest of that night: "It's just acid. Remember the
STORY." Well, sh*t.
Originally Published: March 2, 2011
Original Page:
http://uweekly.com/newsmag/03-02-2011/17340/confessions-of-a-first-time-lsd-u
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