Either I’m incredibly daft or I’m the coolest mother my future children will ever have. Drugs are such a fascinating vice of humans—we know these substances are dangerous and yet we inject, inhale, dissolve, crush, and suck down these elixirs anyways. We’re the most intelligent race in Earth’s history that fucks up our bodies every weekend with these $4 cigars and street LSD from Dylan’s dealer. Our base desires wrestle with a guilty brain until tabs dissolve in our mouths and we attend class the following day. My roommate bought ultra-cheap LSD recently ($5.75 a tab), so I’ve been grappling with the midyouth question: To trip on LSD or not to trip? September fifth was my first vacation with insanity, but the timing, people, and mind frame were psychedelic perfection. My drug innocence prepped me for a refreshing, altering trip, like how a child enjoys the death thrill of their first roller coaster. I survived that fall semester ride, teetering off the rails jaded and cautious—do I want to repeat my same mistakes, starting with LSD? However, it cannot be denied that hallucinogens are the breakers of dull perspective; new year, new me, new trip. Doubt mixed with rebel longing, middle aged mom reconciling with the Tame Impala experimentalist. It’s a pool of fuck and decisions; thank goodness for pro and cons list.
I’ll begin with the downers since I’m the cold heart queen. LSD is an illegal drug. The police arrest burnouts for taking illegal drugs. Therefore, I’m a burnout—or I’ll end up a thin-haired jailwoman. Either way, drugs aren’t lollipops that sweeten the tongue with a pale bite. They are risky substances that rack up negative statistics every day; remember that barber who chopped his dick off on PCP? I don’t want to be that guy, so far secluded in my thoughts that I’ll mutilate myself. Although unlikely because 1) I don’t have mental illness, 2) I’d trip with reliable people, and 3) I plan on locking away knives/lighters, that possibility of insanity is dangling. People whisper drugs with wide-eyes and terror for a reason: they sever the rope between our consciousness and the ability to control it. Others find that terrifying; I consider it a true liberation. Ms. Bad Trip also lingers in a corner, her mangy hands waiting to leap out of a mind cabinet and throttle. That’s an over exaggeration, but the thought of a paranoid or confused trip makes me nervous. I pretend to be swaggy and confident since I’m a savvy drug consumer, but no one can domesticate the subconscious (even if you’ve tripped 1001 times). Further reasons not to trip: it fucks with my body’s homeostasis. I have no appetite for a few days after, I can’t sleep, and conversations seem like animated puppetry. Yes, the world is more saturated, more beautiful after a pleasant trip—but that ultimately creates disappointment with reality. I wish I was tripping right now is a frequent afterthought (i.e. during sunsets, impossible accounting exams, when UF loses to FSU 27-2 in Ben Hill). Externally, I have friends that judge my “extracurricular” exploits. As non-drinking, once-a-year-party people, they say it’s stupid to flirt with something so obviously illegal. I counter: LSD is illegal because straightass people like you lobby Congress harder, not because it’s a threat to the body. According to The Pharmacology of LSD, not one human has died from an overdose on LSD. Yes, one elephant died in 1963 because of a 297 mg dosage of LSD, but that’s an absurd amount that kills anything. Even drinking too much water kills you.
Finally: Bedrich, you should not trip on Sunday because that’s one less day to do homework. I got an 80% on a “basic accounting” quiz for business processes. How did that happen? I studied and did no drugs since November! Accounting is either a) not my sharpest subject or b) done better when on drugs. In which case, load the tabs into my mouth.
I don’t pop Molly, I rock LSD—so here’s why I need to quit my pansying and shove that tab in my gum tissue. 1) LSD heightens sensation to a mesmerizing, often overloaded amount. Hair grazing shoulders, palms running over inner thighs, the pitter patter of crushed leaves falling on feet—the Tactile becomes the Heavenly and the Visual a daydream of Photoshopped pictures. It’s not like wearing kaleidoscope glasses (well, not on one tab); it’s going beyond 20/20 vision until sound waves are visible and “real” people are unreachable. Being drunk is messy and embarrassing, especially the after midnight texts or bedroom buddies. There’s no such thing as “psychedelic texts.” You’re far too introspective and curious about irrelevant details to bother with other humans. I crave this next-level perception, this unusual view of life neither alcohol nor cigars nor UF’s CLAS courses can give me. I do it for the writing. Hell, 99% of things I do are for a short story or article I write later on. Writing is a combination of authorial truth and style; I’ve got the latter in my back pocket but a writing with thrill and believability is trickier. To be fair, I never wrote my Grand LSD Synopsis after that September day—I slipped it into my semi-autobiographical novel and countless conversations. What I did write on LSD was a collection of gibberish, like a pretentious and eloquent toddler was set loose on Notepad. Next, there is no school on Monday for Martin Luther King Jr. Day—my blessed extra day to watch lectures and scrawl photography notes. This is an altogether ridiculous reason though, since I’ll be exhausted, disoriented, and playing an existential crisis in my thoughts (thanks Lucy). One MAJOR pro is that the meaty chunks of the semester are weeks away—meaning, I have time to trip balls and have little academic consequences (forgetting the 80%). Syllabus week should be renamed Inordinate Amounts of Alcohol, Drugs, and Laughter week. My next window to trip won’t be until the end of this semester or the beginning of Fall 2017–which are eons away now, but which will probably slip away in a matter of seconds. Mastering the timing of stupidity is the key to keep doing it. I have this fantasy that I’ll be watching the sunrise at Paynes Prairie just as the peak hits me. Jason will be next to me with a homebaked corn muffin, and I’ll be drooling over the boardwalk at 6:30 a.m. beauty. We’ll come back to the apartment, and I’ll scribble fiction worthy of Simon&Schuster. He’ll drive me to the Butterfly Gardens, and I decompress in the flutters and leaves. It’s a Princess Bride fantasy, right? I didn’t want it to be romantic though, just friendly. Except when I asked him, he responded, “Mmm no thanks, I don’t really want to be around if you’re on acid lol, also that is very early I would not be able to do that.” That was fine by me, since I know my treatment of LSD as “normal” is not normal at all. We bantered for a few minutes until he whipped this out: “I need some time to think about us.”
What the fuck. It was so abrupt and out of context that my immediate response was “what.” That was at 3:16 p.m. It’s an 8:16 p.m. night of frozen pizza and cheesy broccoli, and he still hasn’t responded. But Jason and his touchy, cute shenanigans are for another tale.
My synopsis: I’ll trip on acid if I wake up on 1/15/17 and feel like losing my mind.