Descriptions of tripping are always going to sound similar, since everyone is having their brains soaked in similar stuff, but my religious LSD experience is unique because the heavy part was triggered by my asshole of a roomate losing his wallet. I had been having a pretty good time until I stopped off at my room to grab a coat. My roomate was looking very serious when we showed up, and he started to spill his guts. Up until that time he hadn’t really struck me as the sensitve sort, after all, he’d banged a number of girls in the room while I was trying to read about Hat-Shep-Sut, or triangulating Mircea Eliade, Jung and Francis Cornford. When my roomate and his friends finished fucking, they always felt like discussing the most pressing issue of the day, which was the second coming of Jesus. After all, I should be able to offer something on the subject since I had the mental discipline to pretend to read Wittgenstein while people were having screaming stand-up sex balanced on a lime green cinderblock wall not four feet away.

Don’t get me wrong. I wasn’t jealous. Just slightly more picky than my roommate or his guests. I knew my folks wouldn’t fork out the money for the cure, and besides, I was saving my body for a hebephrenic girlfriend  who would  one day almost certainly figure out that while I might not be as attractive as some of the members of Squeeze, I was available, and had months of post-adolescent rut capability stored up, whereas they had already fucked themselves anorexic.

As a middle aged man, I have come to be deliriously happy that this union never took place.

Anyway, my douchesack roommate was droning on about his lost wallet when the LSD started to reshape the world I was struggling to swim through. I started to believe I could help him find the wallet just as the upper part of his face , and then his eyes and nose began a steady, dribbling descent to the floor.

” Why in the hell is he going on like this” I thought. “He’ll be able to look under the desks and ooze into the shelves underneath the beds if he keeps this up…….

-Uh oh.”

We left him yammering about his wallet and walked out into the crisp January air for a half a minute, then quickly returned to that womb of boiler generated heat. I experienced a brief jolt of lucidity, and began to believe I’d finished tripping.

A Ha Ha Ha. a Ha Ha Uh Ha Ha Ha. hahahahahahahahahhaha.

We got back to my friend’s room to find it had been taken over by a bong party, complete with some doctor’s kid with a Les Paul singing ” Oh lord supreme, supreme, LET ME FULFILL MY WILL! LET ME FULFILL MY WILL!” without the slightest fucking trace of irony. They immediately began to try and get us to take bong hits, which we initially tried to refuse, but chron culture is essentially Spartan in nature, and we feared being thrown off a cliff if we refused. I tried faking the hit, but immediately a  green swampy cloud replaced my conscience. Some gentle soul put a GONG album on the turntable, and my brains started to squirt out of my ears like grease out of a hot doughnut.

My last “natural” memory as the turn of the century blues artists referred to “things of this world”, was some idiot trying to tell me Jughead was the archetype of the rock and roll persona, and asking me if i could draw him a Jughead from memory. My hand skittered across the page, and the dork began to draw one for me. They must have been gone for awhile when I woke up and looked at the analog numeric display clock on the bong-table in he center of the room. It just kept rolling and melting. The  Paisely Batik sheets that had been stretched across the ceiling with a couple of thin metal wires were reverberating like pelagic fish lungs along with the wheezing dorm refrigerator. I looked across the room to the other bed, where the guitarist for my band was dropping half of his face in a competent imitation of cubism, and asked him the fatal question:

“What time is it?'”

Hahhahahahahahahahahahahahahahha. Nrrgghhhrrgh.

Then it really hit. Really took over. I mean vital functions. I was a smoker at the time, so I was a bit more sensitive, but my heart felt like it was ratcheting itself out of my chest. About this time I was convinced I was dead, then I tranced.

I was a human trunk, stripped of skin, basically supra lumbar spine and skull, flying through a sandstorm. The flight aspect was fun, but I was worried that girls wouldn’t understand me. And the sand hurt. This flying went on for days until my sad little remains squelched up in the vicinity of a mammoth concrete spheroid. My new lung and brains body slung itself under the shadow of the edifice.The big ball kept vibrating these strange warm signals through the cold. Be. It said. Be. Beeeee.

If I told you I’d drawn any unique lessons from this experience, I’d be a run of the mill dick.

But Just being seems to be the order of the day. Can’t much disagree with that.

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