I’ve always done my best to remain in safe, warm, controlled areas when on powerful hallucinogens. In the events where I’m running around a city at night, there are always companions there, willing to assist any possible freak-out... But generally speaking, the freak-outs are theoretical only. I know how to handle my drugs.


After a two-year hiatus, I decided to try acid again. It was the drug I was most familiar with, with the possible exceptions of nicotine and caffeine. I knew it. We were friends. It would never do anything to hurt me.


I was at a local after-hours club, and there were some world-class house DJs playing that evening, I was told. I’m not a fan of house, to be honest, but it was where my friends were going to be, and thus where I was going to be.

After a five-hour quest in order to get enough psychedelics, psychotropics, amphetamines, and cigarettes for the dozen-or-so of us that were going to be attending, we finally made it into the club. Cover was over twenty dollars.

We went in anyway. Not sure why.


The pill of (presumably) MDMA that I took that evening was red, said LOVE in big big letters, and was shaped like a squashed diamond. It was also extraordinarily expensive.

The half-hit of acid I took was known as a double-dipped sun, and had gained a reputation around town as being part of a batch of “super-acid”. It was also more expensive than any other acid I’ve paid for. I was unconcerned. I knew how to handle acid.


I suppose the evening would’ve been much simpler, and easier on my mind had someone not slipped GHB (gamma-hydroxybutyrate, also known as the date-rape drug) into my water. This complicated things.


The evening is a blur, at best, but the most vivid moments I can recall all involve at least five of each of my friends standing in a circle around me, gabbering mindlessly. Over the course of the evening, at least fifty real or imagined friends phased in and out of existence, standing over my shoulder, or beside me at a bar, gibbering like a retarded monkey.

That, combined with the extremely convincing idea that my girlfriend was some kind of drug-fueled demon, was enough to send me home. It took a bit longer than normal to gather my things and leave, especially considering that when one’s leather trenchcoat is made of silly putty, it is much much harder to put on.


After I got home, things got worse. I kept thinking I was back at the club, or that I was still in the cab, and that I would have to leave and go home all over again. Somewhere in the morning, I thought I was standing naked on stage, at a Christina Aguilera concert. It was far from pleasant. Super-acid indeed.

I tripped well into the afternoon, curled up in a ball, hiding under my blanket.

For future reference, at any point that I choose to experiment with a new chemical combination, I think I should try it from the safety of my own home, and with drugs of a more reasonable potency.

I think that would be best.

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