I'm who you would call an
insta-raver. Monday through Friday I attend classes at
Ech and sleep a maximum of six hours between
studying, classes and network bullshitting. Understandably, come
Friday I've had it. I want to get out, party my ass off and feel good the next day, possibly for the entire
weekend.
"Let's go get fucked up!" come the chants from the hallway, forecasting nights of drinking, stumbled attempts at sexual interaction, embarassing moments and surefire hangovers. Inside, I'm glad they're not talking to me. I call up my friends, arrange for a ride, don my windpants, flashy shirt, yellow sunglasses and a random handfull of ravetoys before heading out. If I choose to ingest any substances, I know the source, composition and chemical effect. I also know that for the next few days I will feel like I just got back from Disneyworld, not boot camp. Yet most of the time I don't roll, just go out, dance for eight or nine hours and purge myself of all the crap I had to put up with in the past week one beat at a time, 125 times per minute.
When I finally step out the second night, Sunday morning, the brisk morning air in my face, I feel reborn. Back on campus I have a full breakfast, put on some trance and sleep for the rest of the day. Then it's school again.
And I see little wrong with that.