Citation: The Monkey Mantra. "Into Her Lap: An Experience with 5-MeO-DMT (exp53695)". Erowid.org. Aug 19, 2006. erowid.org/exp/53695
| T+ 2:00
||(powder / crystals)
This wasn't the night to try a new drug. I'd been fighting with my best friend for the past two days, basically behaving like a child and embarrassing the hell out of myself. We were going in and out of screaming matches, crying, cajoling, guilting eachother, kicking each other while we were down, and in general just being completely un-evolved. When it got to the point that she threatened to stab herself with a corkscrew, anything to get her out of her headspace at the moment, I panicked and stuck a pipe of 5-MeO-DMT in front of her instead. I'd never done it, but she'd basically said that if she couldn't get out of where she was at, she was gonna hurt herself. As much as we fight, I would not let that happen. Maybe it was stupid of me to offer her a drug to pull her out of herself. I'd been pretty juvenile all evening, though, so why not add some fuel to the fire?
She took her hit and I held her. Neither of us had tried it before. I didn't know what to tell her about it other than that I knew it'd take her out of herself. She inhaled slowly. She closed her eyes. Ten seconds later, she muttered the word 'Whatever' in a dismissive tone and got up and puked in my sink.
'You have to try some.' 'What was it like?'
'It was like whatever.'
'Did it help?'
'I'm not banging my skull against your kitchen counter anymore, am I?'
'I guess not.'
I loaded the pipe with more than she had. She stood up way too quick. I knew she hadn't had anything like a full effect (and when I got her to try it again, it turned out she just wasn't inhaling much of it at all), and I wanted to make sure I went all the way. Honestly, I'm a major pussy. Not just with drugs, but in general. I have the despicable trait of being more willing to let others take a risk than to take it myself. Not tonight. Not right now. Whatever, right?
I put Depeche Mode on. Shake the Disease. It seemed appropriate. She held me (and that's how you know your best friends, 'cause you can be total scum to each other when you're weak and still care) and I took my lighter to the glass dick. I'd expected to taste it. I really didn't. The smoke was smooth, very mild in flavor, but certainly not tasty.
Contrary to everything I've read, it felt like it took forever to set in. I'd expected an instant rush. Instead, it was like seeing a steam engine in the distance, hearing it chug toward me, not sure if it's on the track Iím tied to. It rounds the corner, and suddenly the lights are in my eyes, and I know it's coming. But like any near-death experience, time slowed down. That train *crawled* toward me, approached me, and went right through me.
Did it hurt? Was it scary like I'd heard? Was I torn apart? Did that plastic bread wrapper crumple? No. No. No. No. Depeche Mode got hollow, sounded like it was being played through a large plastic sphere. It was very tinny. My body began to hum at all those points new-agers (no offense) like to call chakras. My chest, my head, my genitals, my solar plexus. It built and built. It didn't feel scary and it didn't hurt. It was, surprisingly, pure, unadulterated pleasure. Like everything I'd imagined a speedball to feel like and more. I was a tuning fork and I was resonating with everything.
It felt *far* too good. Where was the terror and utter surprise I'd been warned of? I cackled. For a good five minutes I howled with laughter like I'd never howled in my whole life. It was uncontrollable and incredibly liberating. I opened my eyes.
'My life, my self, my running monologue... it was all released.'
Rachael, less poetically: 'Like, Whatever, right?'
She held up her hands to make a W, the likes of which I hadn't seen since middle school, before raising her arms in horror as I turned over and puked in her lap.
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