Citation: Bun. "Love at First Sassy: An Experience with MDA? (sold a MDMA) (ID 82430)". Erowid.org. Feb 28, 2011. erowid.org/exp/82430
[Erowid Note: The author of this report thought he was buying MDMA and speculates that it is actually MDA.]
In my other MDA experience report entitled 'Beauty’s Rebirth,' I devoted much of the contextual introduction to my first MDA trip that had occurred two days previous in order to explain what kind of condition I was in when I tripped my second time. See that report
for the story.
I would be remiss, however, if I didn't write about my first trip in more detail. The context was largely the same: A drug addict in the midst of a truly heinous depressive cycle – a black spiral vortex – who had ruined his life as he knew it, I had been compelled to retreat back home five states away to move back in with my parents. I had one week left in the town I had called my own for the past 15 months, and I knew I was coming to a crossroads in my life. Read the first section of my other report for the full scoop on my situation at the time: It wouldn't be appropriate to tell the same background tales twice on two reports.
So I came across this MDA from a neighbor – $70 for half a gram: That's five 100-milligram doses. I weighed and veg-capped the pure MDA powder myself and waited a few days to set up a night. However, I did not know I had bought MDA. I thought I had purchased ecstasy. I – and my two friends – were all expecting to roll, not trip.
We dosed around 8:30 p.m. in anticipation of 6 hours of fun followed by sleep and work the next day. The night did not go according to plan -- not in the slightest.
At 9:30, the Sassy [MDA] – and not Molly [MDMA] – was just beginning to take effect. My friends and I had all left my friend R's house separately, so we could get our cars home for the night before the night started; we were planning to hook back up at a bar to see a live show fifteen minutes later. We all lived within the same 10-block radius along with the bar, so it wasn't a bad idea.
I arrived first and ran into some friends. I grabbed a beer, and stood watching the band; it was a capacity crowd for the little bar. After a few minutes, one of my friends showed up. He looked ill at ease, but he was hanging in there. I started to shoot the breeze with him, but after a few minutes of somewhat forced confabulation on his part, he interrupted me to tell me he thought he was flipping and needed to get out of the bar. He said he'd be right back – and I believed him. Oops. Again, we didn't know we had taken Sassy – and even if we had known, it would have meant nothing to us because none of us knew what Sassy was like.
Well, he was gone. I never saw him again for the rest of the night. Even now that it was raining outside, he walked around town for several hours before going back home to write and listen to music. 'Oh, the selfishness!' I thought to myself.
An hour after he jetted, the other friend ('D') rolled up. He already had a beer in his hand when he crept up to the table, so he was obviously collected enough to order a beer. He had just come from another bar, he said, to catch a few minutes of another show. Even though this all screamed 'trip,' – the fact that he had gotten sidetracked and distracted, taking way, way too long to get to his destination – none of us figured it out. I knew it wasn't Molly – that much was clear –, but I still had no idea what we were dealing with.
Then it hit me. It hit me when I saw that D was hunkered down on his knees like a baseball catcher: He hadn't been sitting in a chair the entire time. Hunched down on his knees with his head hovering slightly above the edge of the table, he folded his arms across in front. It made no sense. I asked him to sit down in a chair at our table, for there were two chairs available right at that time – but he declined. He then proceeded to crab-walk over to another table where some of his friends were sitting and squatted down on his knees just like before– again, when the table had a chair available to his immediate right. It was bizarre, and there I first suspected we had taken MDA, for I had heard MDA was a psychedelic occasionally sold as or simply confused with E – and this was some trippy shit.
D crept back to my table and got down on his haunches and looked to his left and right three or fours times while listening to some questions of mine before stopping me, lowering his head, and jerking his eyes into mine: 'I think – I think I’m tripping.' 'You are,' I replied thoughtlessly. 'This ain’t Molly. I'm pretty sure this is MDA.' He nodded and said he needed to go to the bathroom and grab another beer. (We had each consumed two at this point.) It was approximately 11:15 p.m. at this point.
That was the last I saw him. I called him a few times, but he never answered his phone, so I started texting him. His responses came back garbled and awash with confusion. He said in one of his texts – in so many words – that he had wandered out far away from the bar and from his house, and that he had no idea what street he was on. I decided to leave around 11:45 p.m. to go looking for him. I drove around my rainy town smoking cigarettes and listening to a Beachhouse record while trying to find my friend. [Erowid Note: Driving while intoxicated or tripping is dangerous and irresponsible because it endangers other people. Don't do it!]
Around 12:30 a.m., he texted me to say he was fine, that he got to his girlfriend's house, and that he was going to stay in for the rest of the night.
'Great,' I thought. 'What have I done to my friends, and why won’t they trip with the guy that gave them the drugs? Bah!'
So I drove around a little more and noticed little else than a mild electric mushroom glow. I wasn't hallucinating at all. I got home and, thinking the Sassy would wear off in a few hours, I decided to get in bed and do some reading and writing and listening to music by lamplight before crashing for the night.
At the precise moment that the title track on Wilco's 'Sky Blue Sky' came through my headphones, all the shadows in the room began to wave and bump around – a little to the left, a little to the right, coming out off the wall, lying and curling back onto it. The large light reflection coming through the blind-covered window to my left slowly – and yet instantaneously – morphed into a smiling skull that grinned from imaginary ear to imaginary ear. I live in the middle of town on the third story, and there were thus countless light reflections in my room, all of which started filling walls or decorating my floor, effects, nightstand, and dresser. Right as Jeff Tweedy started to sing the first stanza of track four ('Sky Blue Sky'), his words changed my field of vision. 'Windows open . . . and raining in; maroon, yellow, blue, gold and gray': Right as those last words faded down my ear canal, the light reflections on my walls started waving, flashing, and streaking those very colors.
I smoked many cigarettes at my window looking out on the sleeping town and became mesmerized by each and every light source that I saw. Some grew into deep purple electric alien-like objects that glowed and breathed. I was happy to be at that place at that time.
Little else happened save a semi-mind-blowing revelation that struck me around 5 a.m.: [Borrowing a little language from my other report] I saw myself acting in my life over the past 6 months as a character in a narrative – an author-written character in a printed narrative, where my person was defined by a finite set of particular words definitively printed and permanently bound into a book. I saw myself not as a person living a life, but merely as a factitious character, a pathetic drug addict, amid a sea on intertexuality, and released into the world by an unknown author: A prodigal son manacled to a fixed language definition of his person.
That night, I wrote the following sentence:
'Take your life, place yourself in a narrative, and interpret your own character. Distill your soul's agency out of the pap, and ask yourself if you've ever really seen your own face. Only narrative can show you what life has been hiding from you.'
When my life – my narrative-immured character, that is – appeared before my eyes, I somehow felt liberated. [end borrowing from other report]
But that trail didn't go much further, and I finally fell asleep listening to trippy tunes around 7 a.m. while weighing the cosmic necessity of dropping this drug again now that we knew what it was and what it did.
Read 'Beauty’s Rebirth' for the rest of story involving my next MDA trip two days later, when my life changed forever.
Experience Reports are the writings and opinions of the individual authors who submit them.
Some of the activities described are dangerous and/or illegal and none are recommended by Erowid.