Mixed feelings about Occupy Wall Street
I had the day off work, and I spent a lot of the day browsing news articles. There is a lot of buzz about the current situation on Wall Street, and all of the smaller gatherings going on in support of this protest.
When I first heard about Occupy Wall Street, I was optimistic. I did not support the bailout of the gigantic corporations that played games with our money. I am sick and tired of seeing preferential treatment for big campaign contributors. I'm scared about constantly rising food prices. I've been at the bottom of the ladder my whole life, and seeing others like me stand up for themselves made me proud. I was horrified when I saw the videos showing evidence of unwarranted police brutality. I hold police officers in high regard, and seeing a few of them cause trouble didn't feel nice. I've been watching and waiting, hoping that something positive will come from all of this.
I've seen and heard some strange things today as I stumbled 'round the net.
I've seen articles on left-leaning websites and right-leaning websites, and each take their stance. You can probably guess which ones side with the protest, and which ones don't. That is one of several things that I find disturbing. There isn't much crossover between the “left” and “right” (I'll explain the quotes in a bit) as far as support or lack-of-support, at least from the coverage I've been seeing. This confuses me... mostly because I freakin pay attention to shit.
The “left” tends support this protest, and I've seen Democratic congress men and women give little speeches saying how great this all is... but over the past few elections Wall Street has given gigantic amounts of money to the campaigns of numerous Democratic party members (Wall Street sent it's highest amount of money ever to President Barack Obama). Also, Democrats overwhelmingly voted in favor of the bailout, which is one of the things that this protest is opposing.
The “right” tends to oppose this protest. Tons of Republican figures have come out and belittled the protestors. Yeah, the stereotypical Republican is a slave to big business and Wall Street, but we all know that the Democrats are just as guilty. Then, there is the current trend in the Republican party that strongly opposed the corporate bailouts... and now they are standing against the protestors who also oppose the corporate bailout.
Because the left-leaning political websites are doing most of the on-the-ground coverage of the protest, most of what you hear and see from the protestors are the left-leaning opinions. What happened to all of the people like me? The folks who don't identify with the “left” or “right” but still have very strong opinions about corporate bailouts and unfair advantages handed out by politicians? Nearly every interview I've seen, the protestor on the street went off on some strange tangent that leads the viewer to believe that this is all very left-oriented... but it isn't. It is a neutral subject. The mega rich getting billions in tax dollars after giving record numbers of donations in bad for everyone, especially after all of those billions did little to nothing as far as improvements go. This isn't about left vs. right. This is about corrupt businessmen and corrupt politicians giving each other a circle jerk and hurting everyone else in the process.
Now, why I keep putting left and right in quotes is that what you see in the media doesn't represent either. Under most circumstances, the guy you see on television with a big D or R next to their name is a tool. They both got way too much money from people with way too much power, and they owe somebody a favor. They are going to say whatever you need to hear to keep you on the party line. The Democrats don't represent the left, and the Republicans don't represent the right. This protest is something that both sides should be able to understand.
And then there are assholes like me who aren't left or right. No, I don't mean moderate. I'm anything but moderate. I like to call myself a “radical free agent.”
I believe that every individual has the right to choose to live life as they please, as long as they don't inhibit anyone else's right to choose. Whether that means living in a purely free market or organizing a commune, I don't care, as long as neither are compulsory. Compulsory is bad, freedom is good. When the people we elect decide to give unimaginable sums of money to businesses that helped create a financial disaster, and laws were put in place by the people we elected that made that disaster almost unavoidable... that's bad for freedom. That's why I support this protest. As usual, though, there are useful idiots on both sides of the spectrum, and they are being used, and that is why I also hate this protest. What's a boy to do?
Thursday, October 6, 2011
Thursday, March 3, 2011
Spanish Moss (something I wrote a long time ago)
I grew up in a town of 200 people
and I think it gave me a lot
because when I looked up at the sky
I saw spanish moss in the moonlight
and more stars than any man could count
and when I looked down on the ground
I saw real dirt
it showed me what the world is
and I took it in
and to this day the feeling
of thinking of those days past
makes my heart beat deep and slow
like a beast in the woods
and even though I doubt god
I think he might be there
in those woods
and in that dirt
and in that sky
framed by spanish moss in the moonlight
and I think it gave me a lot
because when I looked up at the sky
I saw spanish moss in the moonlight
and more stars than any man could count
and when I looked down on the ground
I saw real dirt
it showed me what the world is
and I took it in
and to this day the feeling
of thinking of those days past
makes my heart beat deep and slow
like a beast in the woods
and even though I doubt god
I think he might be there
in those woods
and in that dirt
and in that sky
framed by spanish moss in the moonlight
Wednesday, February 16, 2011
The Science of Not Sleeping
I just watched The Science of Sleep. It was a great movie, I liked it a lot. It is about a guy who slips in and out of sleep at strange times, and constantly confuses his dreams with reality. I wish I could sleep like he does. At the drop of a pin, he's out like a light.
Not me.
Even when I am tired, I lie awake for hours. It has been this way since I was 14. I know what causes it. Something happened, something horrible. I can't go into detail about it, but it changed my life forever. It became a very huge part of who I am. Ever since that night, sleep for me is like trying to catch one of those pieces of dust that floats through a stream of light coming through your window shades.
I have learned to live with exhaustion. I have become accustomed to the hazy world of half consciousness. I endure the battle between my mind's need to race and my body's need to sleep. Luckily my body can hold out longer than my mind, and every night sleep eventually comes.
The hours between everyone's bedtime and mine have become a second life for me. For 8 years, every night, I have endless hours of thought to contend with. The lights are low, the world around me sleeps, and it is so quiet that I can hear the blood rushing in my ears. Eight years with a nightly dose of sensory deprivation. Getting to know yourself like I have is a very sobering thing. Sometimes, I think that maybe I've become stuck in my own head. The world around me eventually wakes up, gets moving, but I'm locked away somewhere in my own skull. My long nights of introspection and exploration have begun to leak into the daylight hours, and I need to find a way break this cycle of sleeplessness and let my mind rest. I need to join the rest of the world and wake up.
Not me.
Even when I am tired, I lie awake for hours. It has been this way since I was 14. I know what causes it. Something happened, something horrible. I can't go into detail about it, but it changed my life forever. It became a very huge part of who I am. Ever since that night, sleep for me is like trying to catch one of those pieces of dust that floats through a stream of light coming through your window shades.
I have learned to live with exhaustion. I have become accustomed to the hazy world of half consciousness. I endure the battle between my mind's need to race and my body's need to sleep. Luckily my body can hold out longer than my mind, and every night sleep eventually comes.
The hours between everyone's bedtime and mine have become a second life for me. For 8 years, every night, I have endless hours of thought to contend with. The lights are low, the world around me sleeps, and it is so quiet that I can hear the blood rushing in my ears. Eight years with a nightly dose of sensory deprivation. Getting to know yourself like I have is a very sobering thing. Sometimes, I think that maybe I've become stuck in my own head. The world around me eventually wakes up, gets moving, but I'm locked away somewhere in my own skull. My long nights of introspection and exploration have begun to leak into the daylight hours, and I need to find a way break this cycle of sleeplessness and let my mind rest. I need to join the rest of the world and wake up.
Sunday, February 13, 2011
The importance of introspection
"The unexamined life is not worth living." - Socrates
People say that life is short, and I've never really understood that. Every day is made up of 86,400 seconds, each of them is a little longer than we think. In less than a second, a million things could happen. Yeah, looking back at things can make you feel like they happened just yesterday, but that is more a trick of the mind than a short lifespan. We live longer than most of the creatures on earth, and we have the mental capacity to use that lifespan to achieve many things. But what are we achieving?
When it comes to life goals, there are three schools of though.
The first states that it is important to leave some sort of legacy to the world. It is our responsibility to perform some act that will change the world somehow, and if we fail our life has been wasted.
The second states that when we die, our legacy can not come with us. The biggest goal in life is to find some sort of self fulfillment, and to die an unfulfilled person is failure.
The third states that neither matter, and that all self improvement is masturbation. (yes, I did steal that line from fight club, but it sums up the theory pretty well)
Personally, I'm not sure which of these schools of thought I believe in. Part of me wants to do something to make the world a better place. I have a knack for inventiveness, and I'm constantly coming up with ideas for new things that could be of huge benefit. I'm talking bigger than Oxyclean. Another part of me thinks that I should spend my life becoming a better person,and whether that means devoting my life to serving others or constantly pondering the meaning of life... I'm not sure. Then, I often think that it doesn't matter. Some day I'll be dead and I'll rot and in a few generations the only record of me will be some old files lost at the DMV.
Introspection is to blame for my confusion. I am a very introspective kind of person. I think it comes from a combination of predetermined mental attributes inherited from my mother, the fact that I was raised in the middle of the woods with almost nothing to do but think, and a former passion for consumption of mass amounts of hallucinogens. Whatever the cause, I think... possibly too much. My mind gets the best of me more often than not.
Example: You know those personality test you have to take when you fill out online job applications? I fail every one of them. I can see why each possible answer to the multiple choice questions could in some circumstance be correct, and my over-analyzation leads to panic.
I think I have come to a conclusion, however. I think that my constant confusion over the purpose and nature of life will keep me looking for answers. I'll probably die an extremely confused old man (if I don't become a robot), but I will have spent my whole life trying to figure out the right way to do things. When I'm gone, people will think You know, Troy was a good guy...
So I guess I'll stay confused, at least it will keep me moving.
People say that life is short, and I've never really understood that. Every day is made up of 86,400 seconds, each of them is a little longer than we think. In less than a second, a million things could happen. Yeah, looking back at things can make you feel like they happened just yesterday, but that is more a trick of the mind than a short lifespan. We live longer than most of the creatures on earth, and we have the mental capacity to use that lifespan to achieve many things. But what are we achieving?
When it comes to life goals, there are three schools of though.
The first states that it is important to leave some sort of legacy to the world. It is our responsibility to perform some act that will change the world somehow, and if we fail our life has been wasted.
The second states that when we die, our legacy can not come with us. The biggest goal in life is to find some sort of self fulfillment, and to die an unfulfilled person is failure.
The third states that neither matter, and that all self improvement is masturbation. (yes, I did steal that line from fight club, but it sums up the theory pretty well)
Personally, I'm not sure which of these schools of thought I believe in. Part of me wants to do something to make the world a better place. I have a knack for inventiveness, and I'm constantly coming up with ideas for new things that could be of huge benefit. I'm talking bigger than Oxyclean. Another part of me thinks that I should spend my life becoming a better person,and whether that means devoting my life to serving others or constantly pondering the meaning of life... I'm not sure. Then, I often think that it doesn't matter. Some day I'll be dead and I'll rot and in a few generations the only record of me will be some old files lost at the DMV.
Introspection is to blame for my confusion. I am a very introspective kind of person. I think it comes from a combination of predetermined mental attributes inherited from my mother, the fact that I was raised in the middle of the woods with almost nothing to do but think, and a former passion for consumption of mass amounts of hallucinogens. Whatever the cause, I think... possibly too much. My mind gets the best of me more often than not.
Example: You know those personality test you have to take when you fill out online job applications? I fail every one of them. I can see why each possible answer to the multiple choice questions could in some circumstance be correct, and my over-analyzation leads to panic.
I think I have come to a conclusion, however. I think that my constant confusion over the purpose and nature of life will keep me looking for answers. I'll probably die an extremely confused old man (if I don't become a robot), but I will have spent my whole life trying to figure out the right way to do things. When I'm gone, people will think You know, Troy was a good guy...
So I guess I'll stay confused, at least it will keep me moving.
Top 5 Reasons why Lady Gaga Sucks
** WARNING **
THIS POST WILL PISS OFF GAGA FANS. I don't have anything against you for liking her. I just happen to think that she is a full blown case of the herp in the groin of pop culture.
Reason 1.
She is lyrically average.
Her first popular song, at least the first one I ever heard, was Love Games.
"Let's have some fun,
This beat is sick
I wanna take a ride on your disco stick
I wanna kiss you
But if I do then I might miss you babe
It's complicated and stupid
Got my ass squeezed my sexy cupid
Guess he wants to play,
Wants to play
A love game"
This, apparently, is the work of a great artist. To me, it sounds more like the ramblings of an over-sexually educated 6th grade cheer leader.
"That's not fair, you are just unfairly using one example out of her lyrics!"
No problem, how about...
"I asked my girlfriend if she'd seen you 'round before
She mumbled something while we got down on the floor, baby
We might've fucked not really sure, don't quite recall
But something tells me that I've seen him, yeah, before"
Or maybe...
"Hey there, sugar baby, saw you twice at the pop show
You taste just like glitter mixed with rock and roll
I like you a lot, lot, think you're really hot, hot
Know you think you're special when we dance real crazy
Glamophonic, electronic, d-d-disco baby
I like you a lot, lot, all we want is hot, hot
Boys, boys, boys, we like boys in cars
Boys, boys, boys, buy us drinks in bars
Boys, boys, boys with hairspray and denim
And boys, boys, boys, we love them, we love them"
and then...
"Feel like getting dirty now,
1, 2, 3 – My pants are down.
Not gonna reason, you’re gonna do, whatever I like.
‘Cause I’m happy as a clam tonight."
I could go on and on and on. Most of her music concentrates on how much fun it is to be a modern day 20 something girl who loves to go to clubs and drink and wear body glitter and silly clothes and sleep with whoever. This is the same method used by just about every female pop singer these days (a similar method is used by male hiphop singers), but for some reason Lady Gaga is special.
Reason 2
She tries to be David Bowie, but fails.
No, I'm not talking about the interview where she compared her performances to those of Bowie's, Madonna's, and Queen's. Artists are allowed to compare styles. I'm talking about the persona she creates. Bowie created an alternate persona named Ziggy Stardust, who was an actual character he attempted to portray through his music, style, and behavior. He did it extremely well, immersing himself entirely into Ziggy's life.
Gaga, on the other hand just dresses in odd costumes and tries to behave in a way that will provide the most shock value. To her fans and the press(and her wallet), it is awesome. To everyone else, it is a screaming cry for attention. This behavior has somehow caused people to label her an "eccentric artist" instead of an "attention whoring wacko who does odd things because the publicity makes her loads of money."
Reason 3
She is reviving the 'fake artsy girl who just dresses funny and spends too much time at the club" culture.
This subculture has been around for a while, but it was finally starting to die down. Girls were starting to grow up, put away their silver space boots, get rid of their neon colored makeup, and stop buying clothes based on how they looked under a blacklight. Yeah, they were still fake artsy, but you didn't have to see them walking down the street and somehow choke down the urge to hit them. Then, Gaga came. It not only convinced these girls to fish their multicolored tutus out from the bottoms of their closets, but it introduced a whole new generation of these girls to the world.... THEN made it cool. Now there are millions of little fangirls running around doing their absolute best to look like they got their clothes from the graves of dead transvestite hookers.
*an actual Gaga fangirl*
Reason 4
She gets political.
For some reason, when singers and actors get famous, they suddenly think they become experts in the field of politics. Gaga is not immune to this. I won't go into the specifics of her politics, I'm not here to bash her beliefs. I will, however, point out that famous people tend to be especially douchey when it comes to spouting their beliefs. She gave a very well written speech in opposition to DADT, but at the end of it she said, "Are you listening? Shouldn't everyone deserve the right to wear the same meat dress that I did?"
Calling even more attention to your attention whoring tactics in the middle of a political speech... Classy Gaga, very classy. I know, I know, fame is a useful political tool. Most famous people don't know how to draw the line between trying to educate people and boasting about their exploits, though. It's a douchey move, and it makes whatever side you are on look bad.
Reason 5
Attention whoring.
I've referenced this several times above, but I felt that it needed its own section.
Her level of attention whoring is beyond compare. She has, perhaps, surpassed any human being to ever live in her need for other people to talk about her. I hear that tonight she rode into the grammys inside a giant egg. She once wore a dress made entirely out of meat. Her costumes are so strange that it is often times hard to call them clothes.
Even when she isn't on stage, the attention whoring continues. She once wore a bikini to a baseball game, then started giving people the finger when they took pictures of her. She also went to her sister's graduation dressed as if she were about to go fight a bull and then mourn her own death once she was gored in the chest.
In her interview with Barbara Walters, she did say that it was a misconception that she was "artificial or attention seeking," and that every part of her was devoted to love, art, and be a teacher to all of her young fans so they won't be afraid of who they are. Art, love, and defeating fear are good things... but an attention whore wouldn't admit that their behavior was a cry for attention. An attention whore would, in fact, try to spin their behavior into something positive. I'm not sure that her cover can really stand up to questioning though (unless love means fucking everything that moves, art means looking completely ridiculous, and being a teacher means setting a horrible example for children).
Then, I come to the realization that by writing this blog post I am in fact giving Lady Gaga attention. It is negative attention, but still.... FUCK.
THIS POST WILL PISS OFF GAGA FANS. I don't have anything against you for liking her. I just happen to think that she is a full blown case of the herp in the groin of pop culture.
Reason 1.
She is lyrically average.
Her first popular song, at least the first one I ever heard, was Love Games.
"Let's have some fun,
This beat is sick
I wanna take a ride on your disco stick
I wanna kiss you
But if I do then I might miss you babe
It's complicated and stupid
Got my ass squeezed my sexy cupid
Guess he wants to play,
Wants to play
A love game"
This, apparently, is the work of a great artist. To me, it sounds more like the ramblings of an over-sexually educated 6th grade cheer leader.
"That's not fair, you are just unfairly using one example out of her lyrics!"
No problem, how about...
"I asked my girlfriend if she'd seen you 'round before
She mumbled something while we got down on the floor, baby
We might've fucked not really sure, don't quite recall
But something tells me that I've seen him, yeah, before"
Or maybe...
"Hey there, sugar baby, saw you twice at the pop show
You taste just like glitter mixed with rock and roll
I like you a lot, lot, think you're really hot, hot
Know you think you're special when we dance real crazy
Glamophonic, electronic, d-d-disco baby
I like you a lot, lot, all we want is hot, hot
Boys, boys, boys, we like boys in cars
Boys, boys, boys, buy us drinks in bars
Boys, boys, boys with hairspray and denim
And boys, boys, boys, we love them, we love them"
and then...
"Feel like getting dirty now,
1, 2, 3 – My pants are down.
Not gonna reason, you’re gonna do, whatever I like.
‘Cause I’m happy as a clam tonight."
I could go on and on and on. Most of her music concentrates on how much fun it is to be a modern day 20 something girl who loves to go to clubs and drink and wear body glitter and silly clothes and sleep with whoever. This is the same method used by just about every female pop singer these days (a similar method is used by male hiphop singers), but for some reason Lady Gaga is special.
Reason 2
She tries to be David Bowie, but fails.
No, I'm not talking about the interview where she compared her performances to those of Bowie's, Madonna's, and Queen's. Artists are allowed to compare styles. I'm talking about the persona she creates. Bowie created an alternate persona named Ziggy Stardust, who was an actual character he attempted to portray through his music, style, and behavior. He did it extremely well, immersing himself entirely into Ziggy's life.
Gaga, on the other hand just dresses in odd costumes and tries to behave in a way that will provide the most shock value. To her fans and the press(and her wallet), it is awesome. To everyone else, it is a screaming cry for attention. This behavior has somehow caused people to label her an "eccentric artist" instead of an "attention whoring wacko who does odd things because the publicity makes her loads of money."
Reason 3
She is reviving the 'fake artsy girl who just dresses funny and spends too much time at the club" culture.
This subculture has been around for a while, but it was finally starting to die down. Girls were starting to grow up, put away their silver space boots, get rid of their neon colored makeup, and stop buying clothes based on how they looked under a blacklight. Yeah, they were still fake artsy, but you didn't have to see them walking down the street and somehow choke down the urge to hit them. Then, Gaga came. It not only convinced these girls to fish their multicolored tutus out from the bottoms of their closets, but it introduced a whole new generation of these girls to the world.... THEN made it cool. Now there are millions of little fangirls running around doing their absolute best to look like they got their clothes from the graves of dead transvestite hookers.
*an actual Gaga fangirl*
Reason 4
She gets political.
For some reason, when singers and actors get famous, they suddenly think they become experts in the field of politics. Gaga is not immune to this. I won't go into the specifics of her politics, I'm not here to bash her beliefs. I will, however, point out that famous people tend to be especially douchey when it comes to spouting their beliefs. She gave a very well written speech in opposition to DADT, but at the end of it she said, "Are you listening? Shouldn't everyone deserve the right to wear the same meat dress that I did?"
Calling even more attention to your attention whoring tactics in the middle of a political speech... Classy Gaga, very classy. I know, I know, fame is a useful political tool. Most famous people don't know how to draw the line between trying to educate people and boasting about their exploits, though. It's a douchey move, and it makes whatever side you are on look bad.
Reason 5
Attention whoring.
I've referenced this several times above, but I felt that it needed its own section.
Her level of attention whoring is beyond compare. She has, perhaps, surpassed any human being to ever live in her need for other people to talk about her. I hear that tonight she rode into the grammys inside a giant egg. She once wore a dress made entirely out of meat. Her costumes are so strange that it is often times hard to call them clothes.
Even when she isn't on stage, the attention whoring continues. She once wore a bikini to a baseball game, then started giving people the finger when they took pictures of her. She also went to her sister's graduation dressed as if she were about to go fight a bull and then mourn her own death once she was gored in the chest.
In her interview with Barbara Walters, she did say that it was a misconception that she was "artificial or attention seeking," and that every part of her was devoted to love, art, and be a teacher to all of her young fans so they won't be afraid of who they are. Art, love, and defeating fear are good things... but an attention whore wouldn't admit that their behavior was a cry for attention. An attention whore would, in fact, try to spin their behavior into something positive. I'm not sure that her cover can really stand up to questioning though (unless love means fucking everything that moves, art means looking completely ridiculous, and being a teacher means setting a horrible example for children).
Then, I come to the realization that by writing this blog post I am in fact giving Lady Gaga attention. It is negative attention, but still.... FUCK.
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
The Epic Journey of One Goat in the Big City
For those of you who know me well, you have probably heard "the goat story," and for those who haven't... prepare for a treat. I have told the story many times, but this is the first time I have written it down.
This series of strange events is what lead to my swearing to never touch drugs again, ever ever ever ever ever. You see, for a long time drugs were a large part of my life. I'm not sure if it was a coping mechanism, an attempt to broaden my horizons, or an excuse to spend my life doing a whole lot of nothing. It could very well have been a bit of all three, but I do know one thing: it caused lots of strange things to happen. This is by far the strangest thing to occur, and it had a profound effect on me.
It all started one night when I went to see my friends' band play at a shitty little bar in Houston, Tx. I went, I listened to them play, and after a while I felt the need for a cigarette. I stepped onto the patio out front, and out of the corner of my eye I saw a guy pacing back and forth. He seemed to be angry, and I was feeling cheerful so I decided Hey... I should try to cheer him up!
"Hey man, you seem pretty pissed. You cool, dude?"
"HELL NO I'M NOT COOL. I'VE BEEN TRYING TO SELL THESE MUSHROOMS ALL NIGHT LONG, AND NOBODY WANTS TO BUY THEM! I EVEN TRIED THE CLUB, BUT EVERYONE THOUGHT I WAS SELLING HEROIN!!! FUCKING HEROIN!!! I DON'T FUCK WITH HEROIN, SO I GOT OUT OF THERE!"
"Man... that blows, dude..."
"YEAH IT DOES! YOU'RE THE ONLY PERSON WHO HASN'T TREATED ME LIKE SHIT ALL NIGHT! HERE, HAVE THIS!"
He reached out his hand, and shoved a big bag into my grip. I looked down, and inside this bag was a big ball of dried out shrooms. A million possibilities of grand-ol-times flew through my mind, I could envision hours upon hours of fun. Before I could look up and thank the guy... He was gone.
Then it hit me...
OH SHIT, TOMORROW IS THE WESTHEIMER BLOCK PARTY!!! I'M TOTALLY GOING TO TRIP BALLS AND HANG OUT ALL DAY LONG!!!!
For those of you who have never heard of the Westheimer block party, let me explain. Imagine the most hippieish, indieish, coolest part of a big city. Now Imagine that they shut down all of the streets there, set up some booths, open every bar and club, and have a gigantic party where everyone and anyone is invited. Now imagine that it is just one giant excuse for everyone to get together and get high. That is the Westheimer block party.
So I head home, get some sleep, and the next morning my adventure begins. My room mate (we will call him Mr. Jolly) and I wake up, get dressed, and get prepared for the day. Mr. Jolly has a few amphetamine pills, which he takes in anticipation of all of the fun the day will bring. I have my shrooms. A sane person would look at all of these shrooms and think, Hmmmm... I probably shouldn't take these all at once. It would be better if I spaced them out throughout the day...
Apparently, I wasn't feeling all too sane that morning.
I grabbed a glass of water, and all at once I downed this gigantic ball of hallucinogenic mushrooms that I got for free fro a complete stranger outside a shitty bar.
We hung around the apartment for a while, drank a few beers, and eventually headed out in Mr. Jolly's truck. As we rode toward the party, I could feel the mushrooms begin to kick in. I felt an overwhelming sense of joy, so much that I was starting to panic at my happiness. All of the power lines in the air flew by the truck as we drove, and I could sense the energy pulsing through them. All of the cars sped along, switching lanes, stopping and going, moving like ants to an abandoned Oreo cookie. This was going to be an awesome high.
We eventually find our way there, and after about an hour of looking for a parking spot, we walked toward the party. Unfortunately for Mr. Jolly, I was momentarily sidetracked. While walking along the sidewalk, I spotted a bush. This was no ordinary bush, though. This bush was covered in thousands of tiny flowers, and I mean thousands of them. Each one of these tiny little flowers was PINK. I mean they were fucking PINK. They were the pinkest pink to ever be pink in the history of the entire color pink. It looked as if red and white had made sweet, sweet love for a thousand years, and their bodily fluids released during climax had been collected and stored. Once the mystical sex session had ceased, the collected juices were concentrated into a pigment that was the pure essence of PINK. It was then poured over the bush like a waterfall. I was completely mindfucked over how pink this bush was.
Eventually Mr. Jolly pulled me away from that awesome bush, and we continued our trek to the party. The sidewalks were getting a bit more crowded, and everyone's faces looked strange. I couldn't stop laughing at how incredibly weird all of these people looked. Some of them had faces like rats, others like snakes, others like whales. It was hilarious... But then, out of the crowd, walked a single man. He was headed straight for me, and I couldn't take my eyes off of him. This was no ordinary man. He looked like he had just walked out of the forest in the 1400s. He had on a blue, puffy shirt and brown pants made of a coarse material, looking exactly like someone from the Bayeux Tapestry. He had a long, gray beard and long, gray hair, with jade beads woven all throughout the tangled mess. He had low, shaggy brows, a wide nose, a wide mouth, and skin that appeared to have seen tons of weathering from years of working in the fields. Worst of all, this guy had a crooked and bent leg that twisted at impossible angles as he walked, supported by a strange cane that looked like a wizard's staff. This dude was some sort of crazy ass troll wizard from the past, and he was coming to get me. I froze, and he kept walking my way. His eyes pierced to the deepest depths of my soul. He wobbled closer and closer on that crooked leg, and casually passed my by. I'm sure that to everyone else, it appeared that he had in no way, shape, or form tried to steal my soul... but I knew better. Mr. Jolly acted as if he never saw the guy, he just kept pulling me along saying, "damn dude, hurry up! We are going to miss the fun!"
(Months later I found out that this person was not a figment of my imagination. He is an actual person who is nicknamed "the Westheimer Wizard. I'm not sure if that makes me feel any better or worse. Since he is real, he could have ACTUALLY tried to steal my soul.)
After a bit more walking, we arrived at the hot spot of the whole party. It was amazing. Tons of music, tons of art, tons of people, tons of smells, tons of colors... and I was on massive amounts of hallucinogenic mushrooms. My mind was ablaze with the million sensations of being at the Westheimer block party. We hung around, we laughed, we were having a grand time. Mr. Jolly noticed that I was having a particularly intense good time, and he got jealous. He made a quick phone call, then started dragging me along the sidewalk.
"Where are we going, man?"
"We're going to meet my dealer, I'm getting some shrooms too. You are having way too much fun, and I want to have too much fun too."
"Ok, but where are we meeting him?"
"The Galleria."
I began to worry. The Galleria is a gigantic tourist mall in Houston. Why did his dealer want to meet up there? It is filled with rich tourists, rich locals, weirdos from the apple store, and cops... and I was so high that my entire reality was beginning to shift into another realm made up of shitty bar bands and people who looked like animals.
"I don't know about this man, my legs are melting. I don't think I can go to the Galleria with melting legs..."
"Shut the fuck up, your legs aren't melting. Walk."
The next thing I know, we are riding down highway 59. The windows are down, and we are flying at the speed of sound. Skyscrapers are rising from the ground like rockets and trees. The highway is a vast concrete plain, herds of cars galloping along like gazelle across the Serengeti. I had a smile on my face that felt like it would split my face in half.
"Dude, Troy... Stop smiling like that! I'm trying to drive and I can't stop laughing!"
"I can't dude, my face won't let me!"
We pull off of 59, onto 610, and down the exit ramp to the Galleria. After a bit of time staring at the vines covering a brick wall, a truck pulls in front of us. The back window slides open, and 3 pretty girls stick their heads out and start waving at us. I waved back, they laughed, then flashed me their phone number through hand signals. I called.
"HEY HIPPIE GUY!!!" (At this time in my life, my curly hair went past my shoulders and I wore big aviator sunglasses. I guess I looked like a hippie to them.)
"Hey pretty girls!"
"Did you just come from the block party?"
"yup"
"Are you going to the Galleria?"
"yup"
"OMG YOU SHOULD TOTALLY MEET US AT DYLAN'S CANDY BAR!!!!!"
"ok, see you there."
At first I was excited, I was going to get to talk to pretty girls. Then, I was worried. Dylan's Candy Bar is a room that looks like a gigantic rainbow made of sweets WHEN YOU ARE SOBER. What was it going to look like in my state of mind? How would I even navigate my way there? I was in no condition to go venturing about in a gigantic mall, I JUST WATCHED THE HIGHWAY TURN INTO THE SERENGETI. I decided to risk it though, because there were pretty girls who wanted to talk to me.
We arrive at the Galleria, and Mr. Jolly told me that he would be with his dealer at some sports bar. I headed off to find the pretty girls. I walked through the doors, and this mall that I had been to a million times was transformed into an entirely new universe. Nothing looked familiar, but vague memories of the layout of the mall gave me clues. I just had to look for the rainbow sign. I walked, and walked, and walked, searching for Dylan's Candy Bar. I was starting to get paranoid. Everyone was looking at me. EVERYONE. I thought they were anyway, and it was freaking me out. Even with their heads turned away, I could feel them staring at me, reading my thoughts, knowing I was higher than giraffe pussy. Walk faster, Troy. Walk faster.
I power-walked across the mall, and eventually I saw the rainbow sign I was searching for. I stepped under it and through the doors, and there I was. I was inside a rainbow. It smelled like pure candy heaven. Every color possible was inside that room, and I felt like I could taste every one of them. I saw my friend, Amber, who happened to be working there at the time. She tried to say hi, but I pretended that I didn't see her. I was afraid that she would get pissed if she noticed how high I was at her job. I turned around, and I saw the pretty girls. I also saw that the pretty girls were accompanied by even more pretty girls, and one awkwardly skinny scene kid kind of guy. They spotted me and screamed, "HIPPIE GUY!!!! YOU ARE HERE!!!!!"
Before I knew it, I was surrounded. They were all around me, shoving candy in my mouth, rubbing my chest and back, hugging my arms, imprisoning me in a wall of young and perky flesh.
"Hippie guy, your pupils are very dilated. What are you on?"
"Ummm... Shrooms...."
"OMG, ALL OF US ARE ON ECSTASY!!!!"
They pulled in tighter, all hugging me and rubbing me and touching me at once, behaving as if somehow the fact that we were all on drugs made us into some sort of family being reunited after many years. I was going to die. These people were going to smother-fuck me in a drug induced candy orgy from rainbow hell. I did the only thing I could. I screamed. I screamed so loud, you could have sworn that someone had just ripped out my spine through my anus. The girls jumped back in confusion, and I ran as far away as I could.
I think autopilot took over, because before I knew it I was in the bathroom. I was safe here, bathrooms are always safe. I washed the sweat from my face at the sink, then I stepped in front of a urinal and unzipped my pants. I stood there, penis in hand, draining the main vein, when I heard a sound... Chattering teeth. What. The. Fuck. Is. That? All I could imagine was that Chatterbox from the movie Hellraiser was standing right behind me and clicking his teeth right into my ear. Somehow, I had pissed into the urinal wrong and had been transported into the world of the Cenobites. I was scared as fuck, because I did not want my skin to be torn off by a thousand hooks. Slowly, I turned my head.
It was that skinny scene kid. He had followed me to the fucking bathroom! He was standing inches behind me, leaning over my shoulder and chattering his teeth. He whispered into my ear through his chattering teeth...
"I'm rolling re-e-e-ea-a-aa-a-ally fucking hard, Ma-a-a-a-a-a-an..."
I screamed again, and I ran across the mall another time. I'm not even sure if I put my penis back in my pants before I ran out of the bathroom.
I eventually found my way to the sports bar where Mr. Jolly was meeting his dealer. I walked inside, found him, grabbed him by the shoulders, and shook him as I said, "TAKE ME HOME TAKE ME HOME TAKE ME HOME TAKE ME HOME!"
"Dude, chill... you are tripping the fuck out. Relax, breath."
"I can't man, I can't. Those girls tried to kill me, and some scene kid tried to watch me pee. I need to go home!"
"alright man, alright... lets go I guess."
We got into his truck, and we left. According to him, we were driving at a normal speed, but through my eyes we were flying down the streets. I was horrified. To make things worse, Mr. Jolly had decided to play White Zombie loudly over the stereo. I usually would enjoy it, but today it was bad. I could feel every beet and pulse and growl shake my bones, and it felt as if my insides were turning to slime. I think he was a bit mad at me for making him leave the bar, because when we got to our apartment complex he just dropped my off outside. It took me a while to find our door, but I eventually made it. I entered the apartment, and attempted to relax. It was impossible. Being a couple of young males who spent most of their nights partying and drinking, the place was a mess. I felt like everything needed to be clean and neat, but every time I tried to pick anything up I got scared. My trip was intense, and my perception of size and distance was fucked. Anything I reached my hand toward seemed so tiny and fragile, I was afraid I would break anything I tried to clean up.
I decided that the best solution was to try to find a way to bring myself down from the high.
First, I tried to take a nap. I laid in bed, wrapped up in my blankets, shut my eyes, and attempted to sleep. This didn't work at all. My blankets were 4 miles deep and made of foam. I kept reaching my legs out, trying to touch the bottom of the foam ocean. I would close my eyes, and see visions in my head the looked like cheesy felt paintings or airbrushed murals on the side of big vans. Wizards with staffs made of lightning, crawling over tree roots in a gigantic magical forest. Bugs flying like jets through the clouds. It was way too intense, so I got up.
Food, maybe food would help. I went into the kitchen and started cooking, but almost immediately my nose was assaulted by the odor of the food. Any other time it would have smelt great, but my senses were on hyperdrive. The power of the odor of that food nearly knocked me to the floor, and I had to hold back torrents of vomit. This trip was starting to not be as awesome as I originally thought it would be.
I needed to calm down. Maybe a nice hot shower would relax me a bit, and I could think more clearly. I went to the bathroom and took off all of my clothes. When I looked down at my naked body, I was horrified. My legs had an odd shape. My arms looked crazy. My stomach was poking out. From my belly to my feet, I was covered in hair. I WAS TURNING INTO A GOAT. Somehow, throughout the day, I had been transforming into a Sadr like creature and I hadn't even noticed it. Maybe the wizard had something to do with it...
I needed to get into the shower and attempt to wash some of this high away. I turned on the water, stepped in, lathered up, and stood under the water for a while. I felt no better. I had gone from a goat, to a steamy wet goat, and nothing else was accomplished. I stepped out, grabbed a towel, and wiped the steam away from the mirror. My long, curly hair was hanging in two thick spirals in front of my face... OH MY GOD I'M GROWING HORNS! IT'S GETTING WORSE!!!!
Pure panic had set in. What would I do now that I was a goat? How could I get a job? How would I make friends? How would I get a girlfriend????? Who would ever want to associate with a freakish goat creature?????
I decided to try eating again, but I needed to find something that wouldn't overwhelm my new found super goat smelling powers. I chose a bag of carrots, and water. All of the cups were way to small for me to touch or drink from, so I found the biggest mixing bowl in the house and filled it to the top. I then sat naked on the floor, eating raw carrots and drinking water from a large bowl. This was it, I was definitely a goat.
I started contemplating my new life, wondering what it would be like. The biggest worry was my social life. What is life without good friends? Would any of them still want to talk to me. The best course of action, in my mind, was to call them all and ask. I grabbed my phone, and started dialing numbers. I went through the list, calling anyone I thought might answer. Most of them hung up the phone after I started rambling about goats and pretty girls on ecstasy and white zombie. I needed to change my approach. CORY! I'll call Cory, who has heard lots of crazy things come out of my mouth! We have known each other for years, he wouldn't hang up on me!
I dialed his number.
ring... ring... ring...
"Hey Troy, what's up?"
"CORY! CORY! CORY! CORY! CORY!!!!!"
"Uuuuuuu.... yeah Troy?"
"Cory, Cory.... Cory.... Would you still be my friend... if I was a goat?"
".............. Dude, Troy..... What the fuck kind of drugs are you on right now?"
It hit me. I was on drugs. I was on lots and lots of drugs. I WAS ON DRUGS. Somehow it had slipped my mind that I was experiencing intense hallucinations, and this was all in my head. I wasn't REALLY a goat person. I was just high as fuck.
"dude... Cory.... I am on drugs. Thank you so much."
"Ummm... you're welcome man. I'm going to get off the phone now..."
"Ok Cory. You are a good friend. Thank you."
"haha, bye dude"
click
I was so relieved. Although I still felt very goatish, I knew I would be okay. I spent the remainder of the day watching television, waiting for my high to come down. The tv was freaking me out (specifically a news story about a choir of senior citizens who covered songs from The Ramones, all dressed in white, looking like they were about to walk through the pearly gates), but it was better than leaving my brain up to its own devices. Eventually, I came down a bit. I called a few friends over and made them sit in a semi-circle around me on the floor. I sat in my bath robe and told them of the many lessons I had learned that day, and how horrible it is to be a goat.
I guess the moral of the story is that drugs are bad, but if you do decide to partake in them... Don't take a massive dose that you got for free from a stranger the morning before traveling all across a large city like Houston.
Oh, and when you turn into a farm animal, try to remember that you are, in fact, just on drugs. You will be fine.
And finally... It would suck to be a goat.
This series of strange events is what lead to my swearing to never touch drugs again, ever ever ever ever ever. You see, for a long time drugs were a large part of my life. I'm not sure if it was a coping mechanism, an attempt to broaden my horizons, or an excuse to spend my life doing a whole lot of nothing. It could very well have been a bit of all three, but I do know one thing: it caused lots of strange things to happen. This is by far the strangest thing to occur, and it had a profound effect on me.
It all started one night when I went to see my friends' band play at a shitty little bar in Houston, Tx. I went, I listened to them play, and after a while I felt the need for a cigarette. I stepped onto the patio out front, and out of the corner of my eye I saw a guy pacing back and forth. He seemed to be angry, and I was feeling cheerful so I decided Hey... I should try to cheer him up!
"Hey man, you seem pretty pissed. You cool, dude?"
"HELL NO I'M NOT COOL. I'VE BEEN TRYING TO SELL THESE MUSHROOMS ALL NIGHT LONG, AND NOBODY WANTS TO BUY THEM! I EVEN TRIED THE CLUB, BUT EVERYONE THOUGHT I WAS SELLING HEROIN!!! FUCKING HEROIN!!! I DON'T FUCK WITH HEROIN, SO I GOT OUT OF THERE!"
"Man... that blows, dude..."
"YEAH IT DOES! YOU'RE THE ONLY PERSON WHO HASN'T TREATED ME LIKE SHIT ALL NIGHT! HERE, HAVE THIS!"
He reached out his hand, and shoved a big bag into my grip. I looked down, and inside this bag was a big ball of dried out shrooms. A million possibilities of grand-ol-times flew through my mind, I could envision hours upon hours of fun. Before I could look up and thank the guy... He was gone.
Then it hit me...
OH SHIT, TOMORROW IS THE WESTHEIMER BLOCK PARTY!!! I'M TOTALLY GOING TO TRIP BALLS AND HANG OUT ALL DAY LONG!!!!
For those of you who have never heard of the Westheimer block party, let me explain. Imagine the most hippieish, indieish, coolest part of a big city. Now Imagine that they shut down all of the streets there, set up some booths, open every bar and club, and have a gigantic party where everyone and anyone is invited. Now imagine that it is just one giant excuse for everyone to get together and get high. That is the Westheimer block party.
So I head home, get some sleep, and the next morning my adventure begins. My room mate (we will call him Mr. Jolly) and I wake up, get dressed, and get prepared for the day. Mr. Jolly has a few amphetamine pills, which he takes in anticipation of all of the fun the day will bring. I have my shrooms. A sane person would look at all of these shrooms and think, Hmmmm... I probably shouldn't take these all at once. It would be better if I spaced them out throughout the day...
Apparently, I wasn't feeling all too sane that morning.
I grabbed a glass of water, and all at once I downed this gigantic ball of hallucinogenic mushrooms that I got for free fro a complete stranger outside a shitty bar.
We hung around the apartment for a while, drank a few beers, and eventually headed out in Mr. Jolly's truck. As we rode toward the party, I could feel the mushrooms begin to kick in. I felt an overwhelming sense of joy, so much that I was starting to panic at my happiness. All of the power lines in the air flew by the truck as we drove, and I could sense the energy pulsing through them. All of the cars sped along, switching lanes, stopping and going, moving like ants to an abandoned Oreo cookie. This was going to be an awesome high.
We eventually find our way there, and after about an hour of looking for a parking spot, we walked toward the party. Unfortunately for Mr. Jolly, I was momentarily sidetracked. While walking along the sidewalk, I spotted a bush. This was no ordinary bush, though. This bush was covered in thousands of tiny flowers, and I mean thousands of them. Each one of these tiny little flowers was PINK. I mean they were fucking PINK. They were the pinkest pink to ever be pink in the history of the entire color pink. It looked as if red and white had made sweet, sweet love for a thousand years, and their bodily fluids released during climax had been collected and stored. Once the mystical sex session had ceased, the collected juices were concentrated into a pigment that was the pure essence of PINK. It was then poured over the bush like a waterfall. I was completely mindfucked over how pink this bush was.
Eventually Mr. Jolly pulled me away from that awesome bush, and we continued our trek to the party. The sidewalks were getting a bit more crowded, and everyone's faces looked strange. I couldn't stop laughing at how incredibly weird all of these people looked. Some of them had faces like rats, others like snakes, others like whales. It was hilarious... But then, out of the crowd, walked a single man. He was headed straight for me, and I couldn't take my eyes off of him. This was no ordinary man. He looked like he had just walked out of the forest in the 1400s. He had on a blue, puffy shirt and brown pants made of a coarse material, looking exactly like someone from the Bayeux Tapestry. He had a long, gray beard and long, gray hair, with jade beads woven all throughout the tangled mess. He had low, shaggy brows, a wide nose, a wide mouth, and skin that appeared to have seen tons of weathering from years of working in the fields. Worst of all, this guy had a crooked and bent leg that twisted at impossible angles as he walked, supported by a strange cane that looked like a wizard's staff. This dude was some sort of crazy ass troll wizard from the past, and he was coming to get me. I froze, and he kept walking my way. His eyes pierced to the deepest depths of my soul. He wobbled closer and closer on that crooked leg, and casually passed my by. I'm sure that to everyone else, it appeared that he had in no way, shape, or form tried to steal my soul... but I knew better. Mr. Jolly acted as if he never saw the guy, he just kept pulling me along saying, "damn dude, hurry up! We are going to miss the fun!"
(Months later I found out that this person was not a figment of my imagination. He is an actual person who is nicknamed "the Westheimer Wizard. I'm not sure if that makes me feel any better or worse. Since he is real, he could have ACTUALLY tried to steal my soul.)
After a bit more walking, we arrived at the hot spot of the whole party. It was amazing. Tons of music, tons of art, tons of people, tons of smells, tons of colors... and I was on massive amounts of hallucinogenic mushrooms. My mind was ablaze with the million sensations of being at the Westheimer block party. We hung around, we laughed, we were having a grand time. Mr. Jolly noticed that I was having a particularly intense good time, and he got jealous. He made a quick phone call, then started dragging me along the sidewalk.
"Where are we going, man?"
"We're going to meet my dealer, I'm getting some shrooms too. You are having way too much fun, and I want to have too much fun too."
"Ok, but where are we meeting him?"
"The Galleria."
I began to worry. The Galleria is a gigantic tourist mall in Houston. Why did his dealer want to meet up there? It is filled with rich tourists, rich locals, weirdos from the apple store, and cops... and I was so high that my entire reality was beginning to shift into another realm made up of shitty bar bands and people who looked like animals.
"I don't know about this man, my legs are melting. I don't think I can go to the Galleria with melting legs..."
"Shut the fuck up, your legs aren't melting. Walk."
The next thing I know, we are riding down highway 59. The windows are down, and we are flying at the speed of sound. Skyscrapers are rising from the ground like rockets and trees. The highway is a vast concrete plain, herds of cars galloping along like gazelle across the Serengeti. I had a smile on my face that felt like it would split my face in half.
"Dude, Troy... Stop smiling like that! I'm trying to drive and I can't stop laughing!"
"I can't dude, my face won't let me!"
We pull off of 59, onto 610, and down the exit ramp to the Galleria. After a bit of time staring at the vines covering a brick wall, a truck pulls in front of us. The back window slides open, and 3 pretty girls stick their heads out and start waving at us. I waved back, they laughed, then flashed me their phone number through hand signals. I called.
"HEY HIPPIE GUY!!!" (At this time in my life, my curly hair went past my shoulders and I wore big aviator sunglasses. I guess I looked like a hippie to them.)
"Hey pretty girls!"
"Did you just come from the block party?"
"yup"
"Are you going to the Galleria?"
"yup"
"OMG YOU SHOULD TOTALLY MEET US AT DYLAN'S CANDY BAR!!!!!"
"ok, see you there."
At first I was excited, I was going to get to talk to pretty girls. Then, I was worried. Dylan's Candy Bar is a room that looks like a gigantic rainbow made of sweets WHEN YOU ARE SOBER. What was it going to look like in my state of mind? How would I even navigate my way there? I was in no condition to go venturing about in a gigantic mall, I JUST WATCHED THE HIGHWAY TURN INTO THE SERENGETI. I decided to risk it though, because there were pretty girls who wanted to talk to me.
We arrive at the Galleria, and Mr. Jolly told me that he would be with his dealer at some sports bar. I headed off to find the pretty girls. I walked through the doors, and this mall that I had been to a million times was transformed into an entirely new universe. Nothing looked familiar, but vague memories of the layout of the mall gave me clues. I just had to look for the rainbow sign. I walked, and walked, and walked, searching for Dylan's Candy Bar. I was starting to get paranoid. Everyone was looking at me. EVERYONE. I thought they were anyway, and it was freaking me out. Even with their heads turned away, I could feel them staring at me, reading my thoughts, knowing I was higher than giraffe pussy. Walk faster, Troy. Walk faster.
I power-walked across the mall, and eventually I saw the rainbow sign I was searching for. I stepped under it and through the doors, and there I was. I was inside a rainbow. It smelled like pure candy heaven. Every color possible was inside that room, and I felt like I could taste every one of them. I saw my friend, Amber, who happened to be working there at the time. She tried to say hi, but I pretended that I didn't see her. I was afraid that she would get pissed if she noticed how high I was at her job. I turned around, and I saw the pretty girls. I also saw that the pretty girls were accompanied by even more pretty girls, and one awkwardly skinny scene kid kind of guy. They spotted me and screamed, "HIPPIE GUY!!!! YOU ARE HERE!!!!!"
Before I knew it, I was surrounded. They were all around me, shoving candy in my mouth, rubbing my chest and back, hugging my arms, imprisoning me in a wall of young and perky flesh.
"Hippie guy, your pupils are very dilated. What are you on?"
"Ummm... Shrooms...."
"OMG, ALL OF US ARE ON ECSTASY!!!!"
They pulled in tighter, all hugging me and rubbing me and touching me at once, behaving as if somehow the fact that we were all on drugs made us into some sort of family being reunited after many years. I was going to die. These people were going to smother-fuck me in a drug induced candy orgy from rainbow hell. I did the only thing I could. I screamed. I screamed so loud, you could have sworn that someone had just ripped out my spine through my anus. The girls jumped back in confusion, and I ran as far away as I could.
I think autopilot took over, because before I knew it I was in the bathroom. I was safe here, bathrooms are always safe. I washed the sweat from my face at the sink, then I stepped in front of a urinal and unzipped my pants. I stood there, penis in hand, draining the main vein, when I heard a sound... Chattering teeth. What. The. Fuck. Is. That? All I could imagine was that Chatterbox from the movie Hellraiser was standing right behind me and clicking his teeth right into my ear. Somehow, I had pissed into the urinal wrong and had been transported into the world of the Cenobites. I was scared as fuck, because I did not want my skin to be torn off by a thousand hooks. Slowly, I turned my head.
It was that skinny scene kid. He had followed me to the fucking bathroom! He was standing inches behind me, leaning over my shoulder and chattering his teeth. He whispered into my ear through his chattering teeth...
"I'm rolling re-e-e-ea-a-aa-a-ally fucking hard, Ma-a-a-a-a-a-an..."
I screamed again, and I ran across the mall another time. I'm not even sure if I put my penis back in my pants before I ran out of the bathroom.
I eventually found my way to the sports bar where Mr. Jolly was meeting his dealer. I walked inside, found him, grabbed him by the shoulders, and shook him as I said, "TAKE ME HOME TAKE ME HOME TAKE ME HOME TAKE ME HOME!"
"Dude, chill... you are tripping the fuck out. Relax, breath."
"I can't man, I can't. Those girls tried to kill me, and some scene kid tried to watch me pee. I need to go home!"
"alright man, alright... lets go I guess."
We got into his truck, and we left. According to him, we were driving at a normal speed, but through my eyes we were flying down the streets. I was horrified. To make things worse, Mr. Jolly had decided to play White Zombie loudly over the stereo. I usually would enjoy it, but today it was bad. I could feel every beet and pulse and growl shake my bones, and it felt as if my insides were turning to slime. I think he was a bit mad at me for making him leave the bar, because when we got to our apartment complex he just dropped my off outside. It took me a while to find our door, but I eventually made it. I entered the apartment, and attempted to relax. It was impossible. Being a couple of young males who spent most of their nights partying and drinking, the place was a mess. I felt like everything needed to be clean and neat, but every time I tried to pick anything up I got scared. My trip was intense, and my perception of size and distance was fucked. Anything I reached my hand toward seemed so tiny and fragile, I was afraid I would break anything I tried to clean up.
I decided that the best solution was to try to find a way to bring myself down from the high.
First, I tried to take a nap. I laid in bed, wrapped up in my blankets, shut my eyes, and attempted to sleep. This didn't work at all. My blankets were 4 miles deep and made of foam. I kept reaching my legs out, trying to touch the bottom of the foam ocean. I would close my eyes, and see visions in my head the looked like cheesy felt paintings or airbrushed murals on the side of big vans. Wizards with staffs made of lightning, crawling over tree roots in a gigantic magical forest. Bugs flying like jets through the clouds. It was way too intense, so I got up.
Food, maybe food would help. I went into the kitchen and started cooking, but almost immediately my nose was assaulted by the odor of the food. Any other time it would have smelt great, but my senses were on hyperdrive. The power of the odor of that food nearly knocked me to the floor, and I had to hold back torrents of vomit. This trip was starting to not be as awesome as I originally thought it would be.
I needed to calm down. Maybe a nice hot shower would relax me a bit, and I could think more clearly. I went to the bathroom and took off all of my clothes. When I looked down at my naked body, I was horrified. My legs had an odd shape. My arms looked crazy. My stomach was poking out. From my belly to my feet, I was covered in hair. I WAS TURNING INTO A GOAT. Somehow, throughout the day, I had been transforming into a Sadr like creature and I hadn't even noticed it. Maybe the wizard had something to do with it...
I needed to get into the shower and attempt to wash some of this high away. I turned on the water, stepped in, lathered up, and stood under the water for a while. I felt no better. I had gone from a goat, to a steamy wet goat, and nothing else was accomplished. I stepped out, grabbed a towel, and wiped the steam away from the mirror. My long, curly hair was hanging in two thick spirals in front of my face... OH MY GOD I'M GROWING HORNS! IT'S GETTING WORSE!!!!
Pure panic had set in. What would I do now that I was a goat? How could I get a job? How would I make friends? How would I get a girlfriend????? Who would ever want to associate with a freakish goat creature?????
I decided to try eating again, but I needed to find something that wouldn't overwhelm my new found super goat smelling powers. I chose a bag of carrots, and water. All of the cups were way to small for me to touch or drink from, so I found the biggest mixing bowl in the house and filled it to the top. I then sat naked on the floor, eating raw carrots and drinking water from a large bowl. This was it, I was definitely a goat.
I started contemplating my new life, wondering what it would be like. The biggest worry was my social life. What is life without good friends? Would any of them still want to talk to me. The best course of action, in my mind, was to call them all and ask. I grabbed my phone, and started dialing numbers. I went through the list, calling anyone I thought might answer. Most of them hung up the phone after I started rambling about goats and pretty girls on ecstasy and white zombie. I needed to change my approach. CORY! I'll call Cory, who has heard lots of crazy things come out of my mouth! We have known each other for years, he wouldn't hang up on me!
I dialed his number.
ring... ring... ring...
"Hey Troy, what's up?"
"CORY! CORY! CORY! CORY! CORY!!!!!"
"Uuuuuuu.... yeah Troy?"
"Cory, Cory.... Cory.... Would you still be my friend... if I was a goat?"
".............. Dude, Troy..... What the fuck kind of drugs are you on right now?"
It hit me. I was on drugs. I was on lots and lots of drugs. I WAS ON DRUGS. Somehow it had slipped my mind that I was experiencing intense hallucinations, and this was all in my head. I wasn't REALLY a goat person. I was just high as fuck.
"dude... Cory.... I am on drugs. Thank you so much."
"Ummm... you're welcome man. I'm going to get off the phone now..."
"Ok Cory. You are a good friend. Thank you."
"haha, bye dude"
click
I was so relieved. Although I still felt very goatish, I knew I would be okay. I spent the remainder of the day watching television, waiting for my high to come down. The tv was freaking me out (specifically a news story about a choir of senior citizens who covered songs from The Ramones, all dressed in white, looking like they were about to walk through the pearly gates), but it was better than leaving my brain up to its own devices. Eventually, I came down a bit. I called a few friends over and made them sit in a semi-circle around me on the floor. I sat in my bath robe and told them of the many lessons I had learned that day, and how horrible it is to be a goat.
I guess the moral of the story is that drugs are bad, but if you do decide to partake in them... Don't take a massive dose that you got for free from a stranger the morning before traveling all across a large city like Houston.
Oh, and when you turn into a farm animal, try to remember that you are, in fact, just on drugs. You will be fine.
And finally... It would suck to be a goat.
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