It is early morning. The truck you are in is much like a tank. Smiling on the dashboard is a minature Stay-Puft Marshmallow Man. He knows the secrets. Southern California is coming at you all around. You wiggle your toes and feel the sand in between, the sand that came from the Dune desert party you were at before... and when you left, what did you find on the way out?

The memory hits you. Some guy needed a ride, spoke German--the mind is a blur. He gets in the back of the tank, somehow manages to break the latch-down door right off. The moment it breaks, the world breaks with it. You are on your way home. You drop off the weird German guy.

Back with the Stay-Puft. He's smilling. It's all very postmodern. What's that noise in your head? That deep rumbling, its getting louder--must be remembrance of the sonic bass drums from that all night party, but wait--that yellow/orange smoke coming from out front of the Tank...

BOOM!

The driver manages to get the car over to the side of the road. It is dead. Two of you are in trip-mode, luckily the driver is not. On the highway a million cars zoom past, it is so difficult to understand. Where are you? What's going on? The car's on fire, and there's no driver at the wheel...

The driver tells you to stay put, walks over to a emergency phone down the way... you do so, but you see a tow-truck coming by. Something tells you to flag him down, which you do...

Somehow you can hear the driver on the phone, though he is several yards away. "Oh shit--a tow truck..." He comes running back. You can understand what he says, but when you get into the towtruck, after everything is all fixed up, you have a whole new difficulty.

"Osh nee bashto cah-dee blue?"

the tow truck driver seems to say to you. Of course, later you understand everything that he had said, but at this moment in space-time all you can understand is a series of vowels, as if some kind of space-alien is talking through the tow-truck driver. You learn that he is a Texan-Mexican-American (in that order), that he has grandchildren he loves very much--one in particular loves to have fun, just like he can tell all of us in the car are having fun. You just smile, wiggle your toes... let the world go by.

Eventually you arrive at a familar gas station in Vista, CA. Your home city. You love it here. You have some money in the bank, you got it for graduating high school from the few relatives you know of. This money is for college, but that doesn't matter--fixing the tank is of primary concern, ain't it? So you and your other tripping friend take a step into the magical world of Kragen Auto Parts. Everything chrome metal, and shiny--Weird Science by Oingo Boingo (your favorite band at the time) playing from above. You feel like a space cowboy buying parts for your spaceship. You buy a battery. You spend a lot of money that you shouldn't. Doesn't matter, the CAR IS DEAD anyway, fool.

At the gas station there is a mechanic who will look at the car for free. This man is named the Duck. He seems to quack to you. He has a long, flowing white beard--very dirty, and wears a sweat-stained sweat-suit over his fat, lumpy body. He is disgusting. But he quacks. And he's carrying a case with the Lego logo on it, a lego carrying case in which he puts his greasy tools.

He confirms the death of the car. This has been a weird morning. It's time to go home and sleep it all off, if only the "oonksh, oonksh, oonksh" of those bass drums could stop in your head, if only you could stop knowing you've done psychedelic drugs when...

...you and a group of friends drift off from the free concert in the park in the early evening to walk by the river. Each of you carries a white candle and each of you wears a beatific smile.

After a few minutes walk along the riverbank, one of you sees a small circle of lights in the distance. Could it be...? Yes! A circle of people sitting with candles... More of us, it must be! As we approach, yes, we share an unspoken enthusiasm, the excitement mounts, the curiosity, anticipation of joining the circle, investigating...

We reach the circle. Curious faces look up. We smile down. We notice that they are well dressed. White shirts, neckties on the gentlemen. Each with a book open before them. It is then that we realise. They are bible students.

The horror is mutual.

You know you've done dissociative anaesthesic drugs when unbelievably complex Rorschach-like patterns creep out of the screen, and they are trying to tell you some ominous secret with their frantic dance, the dance of the channel 126, one of those snowy channels you don't pay for. Your fingers have joined them in their frenzy and they dig, oh how they dig in the sofa arms; you can watch them digging, clawing, scratching, but not stop them, for they are of pale yellow clay and they mock you, as they are not yours anymore... How did you get in that sofa? Were you not trashing around outside to the beat of music, trying to hold this joint with your frozen fingers and drag a toke from it, waiting for the sun to set or to rise? You must have thrown your short-term memory to the vibrant wolves lurking in the corners of your room in the meantime... Anyway, you are not dead and reborn since, and that's for sure, because you are listening to the same music as you were, except that now nothing matters, since your mind is miles away from your body, alone in the void where no other concepts exists than the music on your ears, the music is everywhere and everything as if the inside of your skull was hollowed out and covered in loudspeakers. Not knowing if your eyelids are open or closed, you pull yourself back to reality to make the conscious effort of raising them, and at the third pair of eyelids you rise you finally succeed and open your eyes, and if you gaze down you can see your legs jerking in a random direction at every beat of the music... Gods, why have all your members forsaken you? You don't need the ungrateful bastards! They can die for all you care!

You wake up. Were you asleep? No, that state of mind is beyond the realm of sleep; but you must have tried to sleep, since you are in your bed... Yes, you are in your bed because you wanted to be awake for 6:00 in the morning... But it is now 7:00, and the class and the bus are leaving at 7:30 for your gym class hike. You see your house, dimly lit by the raising sun, the walls zoom around you, you see your fingers fumbling for granola bars and extra socks, you hear your voice asking your father to get you to school, because you have to be there or you fail the class, your voice is a croaky whisper but it's not quite yours anyway. You are still quite far away from what's happening, how could they not see how big your pupils are, before you know you are getting out of the car, almost trip and fall down, realise the bus is late... You'll have time to go to the toilet, but your bladder won't cooperate with your urethra, one is pushing and the other one pulling, which one is which you can't tell, you won't have time, the bus is here now. Oh well, you climb in, avoiding the looks of the others, they are looking at you with every cell of their bloated bodies, even though you know they are not... The hike is incredibly long, your breath is always short but your legs never hurt no matter how far ahead you are, and time starts passing in a more linear way as you approach the summit. You finally crash on a chair, while everyone is in line for hot chocolate, and you remain there in the stupor that is a DXM hangover, gathering your scattered memories of last night, regaining your sense of touch, swearing that you'll never do this again but knowing you will, thankful that you survived that day but eager to defy death once more, maybe this time you'll know you've done psychedelics drugs when...

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