Citation: Linear Development. "The Near Eaten Hosts: An Experience with 2C-T-7 & Cocaine (exp5822)". Erowid.org. Jan 5, 2002. erowid.org/exp/5822
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New years eve, the time for every life loving American to celebrate life by getting wasted via booze and overindulgence so they can wake the next morning and attempt to live out their resolutions knowing that they got that evil out of their systems.
That understood, one can grasp the kind of mindset that my friend Matt and I were operating underneath to think of the turning of the millenium like overapreciated marketing scam. A kind of post-latchkey children angst that manifests itself through a gradual suicide by substance.
We were hanging out at my friend Kent's cabin on new year's eve, with people that Matt and myself could have possibly given less than two shits about, and had we not have been incredibly drunk, we would have let them know, in a constructive manner, that we would see them in hell. So as sovereign peoples of America we decided to go to the back room for a few lines, just a little bump to try and hide the fact that we were hanging out with golden children of MTV's revolution.
After the first five or so lines each we decided that, goddamnit, it is eleven thirty and we still had time to get the hell out of Carson Daily's underpants and get to Shenanigan's, the local bar, to celebrate the dawning of this new era. There was an area band playing there '16 Till', and after a Few more lines, we needed to hear their music!
We walked in Shenanigan's at eleven forty-seven completely loaded to the gills with coke and anger towards the kind of people that we had been forced to hang with because of the 'Womenfolk' that Matt was so fond of. We made our way to the bar and ordered up a couple of Coronas with limes. We sat back and watched the band play for a set, heard the countdown from the drunken lead singer, made a toast to chaos and George W. Bush (thinking that he had no chance of wining shit), and went to the bathroom for a little bump.
The bar began to clear out at around two thirty, and I turned to Matt and slurred, 'This was just like every other god forsaken weekend that we have had the pleasure to endure...I think that it is time to break out the big guns.'
'And just what kind of guns are you packing this evening?' replied a loaded Matt.
'Remember the Internet drugs that I got a couple of weekends ago that we have been saving for a suck ass night like this? The '2,5-Dimethoxy-4...er...propylthio...uh... hydro chloric acid' or simply 2C-T-7. The shit that supposed to kick acid in the ass.'
'I think that we are more than ready to tie on a load like that, I've had it with simply being loaded, I'm ready to fry.'
We packed up our wallets and hid the beer in our coats and walked out the front door. We had heard of another party that was only about a mile and a half away, and since the police had an extra pompous hair up their asses on most holidays, we decided that that party would guarantee the absolute safest arrival.
We climbed in my truck and in the parking lot of the bar we decided that the time for talk was over, and the time for action had begun. So we took out the silver triangle that the 2C-T-7 had arrived in and ripped it open. It was a fine yellowish powder, looked pretty snort ready laying on the console, so we opted to treat it like all the other powder the we had ran across. We drew out two large lines and both went to work.
It could best be compared to snorting pepper and meth at the same time. It felt like my goddamned nostril was going to burn off and leave a telltale hole in my face. Matt had the same expression of terror on his face as I looked at him across the truck.
It is important to understand that Matt and myself were completely loaded, coked up and drunk. So I did more, I was reasoning that if this was the drug that was going to kill me I was, by god, going to get a fucking kick out of it. Matt had gotten the same idea.
I put the truck into drive and began the short track across town to the other party. I was wandering how this drug had rendered my tear ducts incapable of producing anything to make the left-hand side of my face extinguish itself. I had no idea how much I had taken, or how long I had before I was going to be an unresponsible pile of addict on someone's couch. So I punched the accelerator all of the way to the party.
We got through a hoard of drunken patrons and sat down on the couch and sipped our now warm beer. Time was beginning to speed and I totally lost track of the people that were around me. The time was going on three thirty and suddenly no one except Matt and me were in the apartment except for a few people that were asleep upstairs. I felt sick, and my head began to swirl, so I made my way to the bathroom.
I came to hunched over the toilet with blood coming out of my nostrils staring at puke. I didn't have any idea how long I had been there, but I quickly started to not care. The patterns that began to emerge from the toilet were like the onset of a good trip. Triangles were dripping off of the texture of the wallpaper in every color imaginable.
I leaned against the wall and tried to get my bearings on why I was in the bathroom and who was outside, not to mention how long I had been in here.
Then I remembered the drug, that wonderful drug that goddamned fantastic drug that I had taken to rid myself of near sobriety. It was working, in full effect, and that was why I was in the bathroom.
I walked outside with a new 'I'm frying balls' attitude to see how Matt was doing. Just torn as I was. We sat there talking, but in a strangely coherent manner. Anyone that has taken acid can vouch for a person's inability to make sense. So we sat there with the patterns forming all around us, the reds, greens and blues separating from everything around me, showing their TV like qualities, talking like none of the melting reality was not affecting us. Like the stoic captain that goes down with the ship, just... talking.
The time was four twenty, and I began to pick up on the strange twist of coherence that the drug had given to us, so I started making plans on how to use this brain fuck in ways that I always wanted to use acid's dimensions, but was too paranoid to attempt. I wanted to feel the world! I wanted to live outside of this shitty living room.
Matt wanted no part in my wanderings, which is typical of his cop fearing personality. So I walked outside by myself. There was a fresh snow on the ground and the shadows were phenomenal, I stared at everything in the entire neighborhood, every tree, dog, rock abandoned bicycle that I could see.
Slowly my thoughts returned to Matt, who was inside the apartment right now, afraid to come out or make any noise. Why was he unable to enjoy this with me? His paranoia about the cops was too typical, there had to be something more.
At this point I think that the drugs began to squeeze on my sanity, and reasoning processes. I went, for the most part, insane in every respect. I was seeing a pattern to everything. The shadows and trees and animals left out in the cold all began to speak to me at once, in a kind of drug addled reality feedback.
I went back into the house and saw Matt sitting on the couch. He looked incredibly tense, but why?
'Dude, why are you looking like your next in line for the anal taser at the slaughter house?'
'The owners of the apartment, rather renters, just came down and said that they just wanted something to drink, and to use the bathroom.'
'So they're checking up on us, I had almost completely forgotten that there was anyone else in the house...Jesus, how much noise have we been making?'
'They're probably in their rooms right now laughing at our dumbasses...or cowering in fear.'
'Have they heard about the drug, or the intensity of it for that matter? Do they know what kind of savages are sitting in their living room right now, chuckling at these presumably home-made place mats?'
'Dude. Just sit down, and knock that goddamned snow off of your feet before they come back in here and get pissed...and ask us questions.'
'Okay, just sit here and act calm. Enjoy the drug but don't let them know that it potentially could get out of hand in here.' I said pointing to my head, then Matt's.
We sat on the couch for maybe five minutes, but the intensity of the silence began to sit like a fog on our visuals. I began grind my teeth, thinking about those scheming dicks in the other room that had let me and Matt stay at their house for no other reason than to, most likely, take advantage of us when we became too overcome by the drugs. I hated them, and I was beginning to sense that Matt did too.
'I dissected a cat once in bio II. It was odd having to cut through the skin of a once living creature of innocence to find its trachea.'
Now I was totally at the mercy of my insanity. I began to make free associations out of damn near every subject and era, and they all lead to someone waiting behind closed doors for people like myself's lifestyles to catch up with them. The drug was now in full swing, and my actions could be proven crimes of passion or insanity later.
'I hate to sound like...like a fucking Mickey Mouse club cadet...but are beginning to see and feel what I am feeling.'
'Yeah man, those bastards are out to get us.' Matt said. Matt never ceasing to amaze me with the fact that he is backwoods as all hell but still thinks like me.
'Those fucks have to die. I can feel them sneering at us now, man.' Matt replied.
'But there is one thing that we have to do if we go through with this...and I am not shitting you here...I think that we should eat them...not Jeffery Dommer...just a taste.'
I don't know if it was just the fact that Matt and I had been left alone for too long with a head full of fry, or if we were reverting back a couple of steps on the evolutionary scale, and were simply protecting our territory and getting a free meal out of it, or both. But we were intent, once you confide in a friend a terrible secret like cannibalism, there really isn't any turning back.
We got up and went to the kitchen, both of us were still cranked up on coke and frying on 2C-T-7, looking for the tools for the job. Neither of us had been paying any attention to the fact that the radio was on, we were too involved with everything except the radio. That is when the song came on, the song, the song that saved two miserably twisted fucks like Matt and me from eating our hosts. 'American Band' I am not really even sure who sings it, but amidst all of that intensity, melting of reality and emotions were two guys that just liked to party, not looking to stand up for shit, and certainly not willing to be sentenced to a federal ass-pounding penitentiary for a territorial dispute. We had forgotten that, and with the lyrics: 'We're coming to your town to help you party down, We're an American band!' I lost it, I couldn't stop laughing. Didn't those assholes at the radio station know that someone was getting ready to be killed and eaten! I thought that they were supposed to have a pulse on society, they had to have known that someone was getting ready to be eaten, or they wouldn't have played that ridiculous of a song.
That was it, Matt and myself realized how serious the entire situation had become and we were not serious people. We sat back down on the couch and cranked up 'American band' and quit giving a shit about what the hosts thought. We simply wanted to enjoy our trip.
2C-T-7 is probably one of the best drugs that I have taken, totally worth the money. But for me it wasn't just a visual drug. It was a brain crusher too. I certainly wouldn't leave people on 2c-t-7 unattended in my house. Matt and myself are pretty much pacifists, and to be turned to homicide is outside of our characters. This drug is fantastic yes, but it nearly turned on me.
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