| DOSE: |
2 bowls |
smoked |
Various |
Monday, August 18, 2003 @ 10:20 pm
I had a friend coming over, but I wasn’t going to bring up the topic of dust. Not yet, anyway. However, while smoking a cigarette before anything happened, my friend turned to me and said, “So I hear you’ve got some dust.” I responded, “Yeah. I do.” I wanted to smoke it that night myself, and it was nice to find out that I’d be accompanied by someone that wanted to smoke it just as much as I did. Misery loves company, as my friend would always tell me whenever I’d attack him with negativity.
We sat in my gazebo and took hits from my bong. I had filled the slide piece with hydro and sprinkled a little amount of dust on top. When I began feeling the effects, I felt like I was high, but I could feel something else to the high. It was ok, but not a proper dust high. It was too weak. Not satisfied with what had transpired, we smoked more after watching an episode of The Wire on HBO. We went outside, and I packed the slide again. This time I sprinkled a little more to feel something weird happen, that’s what I always go for, more or less.
Halfway through the slide, I stopped. It was just after my turn, and I asked my friend, “You think I should sprinkle a little more?” But I was retarded, and I didn’t know it. I looked at my friend, and I don’t know what it was, it was either the background moving slower in comparison to other things I saw or him moving around all funny. We went for it. I wasn’t sure what I was doing, but I wanted to see more fucked up shit. I hadn’t put much thought into the fact that I was already seeing fucked up shit at the time. When I tried to sprinkle a little more halfway through, I realized my depth perception had been “shrunk”. It was like I was looking through a car mirror, everything appeared closer than it actually was. I couldn’t tell if I should sprinkle more or not. I wasn’t sure how much there was in the slide already. I couldn’t be sure.
The one thing that kept bothering me was that I had turned into a little kid again, and so did my friend. We had these childish conversations about how awesome it would be to watch a movie where the FBI fights the CIA, FBI vs. CIA, just like Freddy vs. Jason. I won’t get too deep into our conversations. It’s nothing to remember. One thing to take out of this is that I noticed I had become more social. Not only that though. I had become more animated. If I was excited about something, I’d move my hands around, even though I didn’t feel I had the energy to do so. My movements came out retarded too, since I ended them quickly.
Here’s what I’ll remember most, the feeling. Some have described this feeling as “numbness”, depersonalization, “sheer nothingness”, or “endless isolation”. I’d describe it as a retreat into a “child beast” state. What’s a “child” state? You got me. The concept was in a state of freefall, and I hoped it would never get to land. I guess feeling like a little kid again and not having my parents stop me when I make truthful, yet hurtful, remarks to other people. If they’d try to stop me for a reason, I’d get to fight back. It’s a state of total control. Or, at least, an illusion of it. In the end, it’s some form of it. I realized I had been subconsciously manipulated. I had been convinced that I was capable of anything, so my character had become mainly a seeker of fun. The one downside of this was that I was also be in a childlike state of unawareness. I couldn’t be sure what to think of things, and I couldn’t see things the way they really were, both visually and symbolically.
I felt like I could say anything I wanted, but I didn’t feel like moving in order to get something that I said done. I wasn’t ready to hurt anyone’s feelings, but I’d stand my ground firmly if I’d get confronted by an asshole or someone pissed about me being an asshole. Overall, it's a volatile state of mind. All dissociative drugs have their oddness factors. If anything, I’d compare dust to alcohol with a slight hint of psychedelia. We joked around a lot. We had to. Everything else was in slow motion, and our bodies became heavier. It got more difficult to walk, but I found a way to alleviate that, I tilted my body forward as I walked.
Instead of being extremely fucked and ready to pass out anywhere, I felt like getting involved with something, almost as though some form of energy (hopefully not rage) was building up inside of me. I felt good about getting fucked up, and I wanted to smoke more. The only reason why I had stopped was because I didn’t want to wake up a zombie block of cheese. The high didn’t last too long, but the aftereffects (post-“euphoria” effects) got to me. My legs were too heavy for me to lift in order to keep walking, so I lied down for my demise. I wasn’t getting back up, and I wasn’t going to remember some of the important things that had happened. It’s a shame, but somebody’s got to do it.
