I was completely minding my own business after leaving my great grandmother's house. There was apparently an LSU game going on, of which I had previously not been aware. The larger house in the neighborhood had college age kids spilling out of it, mostly guys. They were all in purple and gold garb and the word obnoxious falls short of their behavior. One who had painted his face yellow on one half and purple on the other approached me.
"Bro, yo, bro, are you a LSU fan?" I replied, "Well, yea, they haven't always been my favorite team, but I really appreciate them for where they've come in the last 5 years. I mean, I'm a native Memphian, so I have to support my tigers, but other than them, yes, LSU is my favorite team."
"Bro, you have to come in and have a drink with us to celebrate. You're one of us, bro." They were all drinking out of huge purple goblets filled with yellow fluid. All I could smell was alcohol. I went to reach out my hand to take the glass, but there was one girl, who was not wearing the typical LSU garb. She was just wearing a blue t-shirt. She had a look on her face of misery and she was shaking her head no. The "bros" couldn't see her. There was something about her, maybe it's becaue I'm a sucker for long brown hair and dark eyes, but most likely it was her expression and the sincerity in the way she was trying to keep me from drinking with them.
"You know," I said, "I better not. I have to drive home, and I live across town in Bartlett. There are so many cops around here, and after the storm with all the downed trees, I really shouldn't be drinking." I went to step into my truck and put the keys into the ignition.
"Dude, responsible guy, I like that man. If you want we have some fresh crawfish inside and some killer boutin if you want a bite?"
This was an offer I could not refuse. I don't care how obnoxious these characters were, their faux cajun hospitality was kind, and they offered me food. I can't turn down good food. I stepped out of the truck, and the now scared looking brown eyed girl in blue was sticking to me like fly paper. I had never seen this girl before in my life and I could tell she wasn't sticking to me because she was attracted to me, she was scared.
I picked up a plate and put just a few items on it. I said hi to the other party goers, turned down several more drink offers, thanked everyone for their hospitality and left. When I went to leave the girl tugged on my shirt and said, "I don't care where you're going just get me out of here, please!" I replied, "Sure, sure. I havne't had a single drink. You're safe with me, come on. I was getting a vibe that something was wrong. "Come on, let's hurry. If these guys see you leave with me I'm sure a scene will be made." We went in the general direction of where I had parked my truck. "Please, forgive my lack of chivalry, but I'm not going to waste any time opening the door for you and walking around to get in, there are too many of these guys and I don't want any problems."
Upon arriving to the location of my truck, all that remained was an empty parking spot. "FUCK, I left my fucking keys in the ignition!" I started looking around and I noticed that there it was, a block down. One of the bros had a flashlight and from what I could tell he was messing with the fuses under the steering column. He had a flashlight and was laying flat on his back. I gimp walked as quickly as I could over to him. He was oblivious to me.
With little warning, almost simultaneously I said, "Hey fucker!" while stomping on the bastard's head with my good leg. I then mounted him jiujitsu style, grabbed both of his ears and repeatedly slammed his head into the curb. The look on his face was one of terror. I then flipped him over and used the rough edge of the curb like a cheese grater on his face.
"You want to fuck with me?!? You want to fuck with my truck? You fucking cunt! That's my only way to and from work and you think it would be cute to fuck with it! Mother fucker I will kill you right now with my bare hands!"
I saw a broken tooth fall out of his head and he mumbled the phrase, "P-Please stop. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I'll fix it." I rolled the guy over. His eyes were bloody and his face looked like hamburger meat. Most of the skin from the right side of his face was gone. His forehead and back of his head already had severe swelling. He no longer looked human, but like an orc, he looked like his true self. I got off the guy picked up the flashlight and saw where fuses had been pulled out, some barely plugged in, others rearranged. I plugged in the ones that were not in all the way but my ignition would not start. The guy pulled a fuse out of his pocket and put it into place. "I'm sorry man, I really am."
The girl in blue did not look mortified by my display of rage like I thought she would. Instead she looked relieved as if she had wanted someone to do that to the bastard for a while; some sort of Olive Oil complex I suppose. We got in my truck, exited the neighborhood and made it a few blocks down Germantown Pkwy. Then the adrenaline dump wore off. "I've got to pull over, NOW!" I pulled over into the Waffle House parking lot and began wretching and throwing up. This happens to me after I get violently angry or something overly excitable happens. After the adrenaline has run its course I get ill. I got back into the truck, got the little bottle of Listerene out of my glove box and used it.
I began sobbing. "I'm ao sorry about what happened back there. Sometimes when I get angry I lose control. It's like watchin a movie of someone else." I was trembling and crying. SHe leaned across the seat and put her arms around me. As soon as she touched me I felt warm. Most of my own fear was gone. "No, ir'a okay. He deserved what he got and you got me out of there. Thank you. Everything is going to be okay."
At this point I woke up in tears, sick to my stomach, and trembling. I hate waking dreams. I have them frequently, but this is one of the more disturbing ones I've had in a while. I wish my leg were better so I could get back into martial arts. I've had a lot of anger, frustration, and rage building up lately and I want to prevent this from happening in reality. I've been taking clonazepam and xanax to help with my temper. They don't seem to be helping enough. The ambien at night is helping me sleep, and I'm not sure if it's the chemical reaction of it while I'm sleeping that is causing these waking dreams or situational life changes that are making my subconscious run wild. I will say though, ambien always gives me the best 8 hours of sleep and I wake up on my own without the need of an alarm clock. In any event I definitely need more than a little chemical help if I'm going to maintain my composuew and stay out of prison.
Friday, July 3, 2009
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
We've Got Spirit, Yes We Do
So it was June 2006. I was heavily abusing amphetamines in the form of Adderall and Adderall XR. At this time I had a secure source for the 30mg for a mere $5, a real steal. My contact, Marquette, was a real gem. She and I had met in 2004 while I was taking summer session courses. We would pop addies and stay up all night studying. I was quite the efficient student in these times. My other connection, Frank, had a Rx for Provigil. Provigil is used by pilots. It eliminates the need for sleep, but in the prescribed doses is not supposed to have the effect on the dopmaine system that standard amphetamines have. It is only supposed to elevate the nor-epinephrine levels in the brain causing an alert state of wakefulness, increased productivity, and an ease in the flow of thought. Keep in mind, however, that dopamine is transported along the nor-epinephrine pathways. Open those babies up enough and you're high as a kite. Combine Provigil with Adderall, and you're good to go for 48 hours. I was popping Addies and Provigil, I would stay awake for several days, then when I would start to crash, my body would begin to give out, and I felt that I could no longer efficiently function due to overwhelming paranoia and my body telling me, "Fuck you asshole, feed me!", I would pop 4mg of Xanax and somewhere between 30 to 60mg of hydrocodone. Seeing as how Jack was steadily selling the downers, I was set. I was the workhorse Hilton wanted. I could analyze spreadsheets, find trends, and basically do my bosses job and mine with ease. Life was grand.
The use, overuse, and expenditure of all of my Adderall eventually led to my using methamphetamine. A-Boy and I had the use of meth down to a science. You see, amphetamines are sensitive to Ph. If you take them with acids, they enter the blood stream faster but the bio-availability is lowered. This means less dope, and less time staying awake tweaking. We could have none of that, so we would take lots of alkaseltzer 15 minutes before we would dose. Then we would snort a tenth of a gram of glass. Time seemed to fly by, we were blissful at the peaks, and the valleys were filled with nightmarish depression and self-loathing. He used his school work as an excuse to stay awake. Me, personally, I liked tweaking out, staying awake for days on end. I had friends to hang out with and we could always find things to do. I would wrench on the motorcycle for hours, wrench on the truck, take computers apart and put them back together with the cables neatly wrapped, all the dust removed, and with more efficient cooling systems. We would tear down our operating systems and rebuild them for optimum performance. I can't count the hours I spent compiling Linux kernels. Our paranoia grew to the point where we would only use AIM across gAIM with gaim-encryption enabled. This meant our conversations were behind 1024 bit encryption, practically impossible to break. A-Boy got so paranoid about being "watched by the feds", that he stopped using a wireless keyboard because he swore they could hone in on the signal and figure out his side of the conversation. My weapon and ammunition collection grew as did the amount of time I spent on my motorcycle and the time I spent fucking Martina. Motorcycles, guns, and fucking, these are the things a tweaker holds most dear.
As she and I became much closer, Martina and A-Boy drifted apart. She invited me to go to Jackson, MS with her and her best friend who was in town from LA. Gretchen knew all about the affair, did not care for A-Boy, and did not judge either Martina or myself for our transgressions. This was a huge relief for me. I followed them down I-55 all the way to Jackson. We stopped once for gas and insufflated large amounts of glass in the bathroom on our way. We arrived at her parent's house to a very warm welcome. Her father really liked me and knew that there was something between us. She and I slept together in her old room; they had no objection. Although, we didn't exactly sleep. We stayed awake all night fucking and talking in our down time. The next day we hung out in Jackson and in the afternoon I returned back to Memphis. At this point I had been awake for some 72+ hours. I returned and hung out with A-boy as if nothing had happened. I was such a dick, oh well. He and I stayed up tweaking well into the next day. We went bike riding all over midtown, drank a few bottles of wine, and before I knew it, I had to be at work. I arrived at Hilton geeked out of my mind, full of paranoia, and immediately went to my seat. I had no desire to talk to everyone, I felt as if all eyes in the room were on me, and I was sick to my stomach from having drank so much wine the night and morning prior. I'm sure I looked like death. Later, Ole Sarge told me that he could tell I had not slept for some time. My hands were trembling and when I stood I was dizzy. Periodically I would see the "shadow people" from the corners of my vision and the occasional sparkling star patterns would envelop my vision and I felt like I would blackout.
Just as I was beginning to feel settled and at ease with the situation, you know, really in the groove of my work day, the manager came around and told everyone to go into break. The manager, whose name I do not recall, was a fat black woman. She hated me. She knew that I got along with all the supervisors, and they respected me. She had a horrible attitude and would like nothing more than to fire me. She made me last person to go into break and I had just answered the phone. I did not notice that the roar of talking around me had ceased. I saw everyone around me stand up and walk away. I remember finishing the call in 6min 30sec. I finished, stood up, turned around, and saw a sea of people who were all staring at me, there was a video camera, and the VP of Corporate communications. Everyone was clapping and I had no idea what was going on. There was cake, streamers, and balloons everywhere. Not knowing what the fuck was going on, I began walking down the aisle and nervously clapping. My heart was thumping, my head spinning, and my throat was in a battle with my stomach to keep the wine down. Then the VP said my name out loud and started congratulating me on being awarded the highest honor available to Hilton employees, "The Spirit of Hilton Award". I almost shit myself. Here I was, wasted on cheap red wine, I'm sure my lips were stained purple, and I hadn't slept in some four days and I was practically hallucinating from lack of sleep and I was winning an award. If only they knew how dependent I had become on "job performance enhancing drugs" they surely would have rushed me off to some kind of rehab where I would have been administered electroshock therapy and forced to talk about my feelings of hopelessness and why I felt I needed to use.
She went into a ramble about how I had gotten it for impressing the area president of Europe and Africa while Hilton Hotels Corporation was purchasing Hilton International. Whatever, I didn't care. All I could think about was how everyone in the room was staring at me, my clothes were disheveled, and I didn't know how to stand correctly without feeling out of place. Then she asked me to give a speech about my time at Hilton. I could barely think, I couldn't focus, and I do not remember at all what I said, but apparently I did a decent job and didn't give myself away. The VP then made me take a slice of cake and eat it. I could not stand to look at it, let alone taste it. I could only think of how sugary and disgusting the cake was. The icing, lard and sugar, in my mouth, my teeth, blue and yellow, and how my throat was so dry I could barely choke it down. If hell on earth could exist, this was certainly very close to it. I think my anxiety about the situation could have only been increased if I were standing naked in front of everyone after having taken a dip in a cold pool.
After rubbing elbows with people and thanking the people who "got me where I am today", I sat back down and continued working. I would do anything to make this situation stop. I then took a break, went to the bathroom, and swallowed several hydrocodone tablets. I could feel my heart slow, my breathing ease, and the anxiety melt away like cotton candy. I sat back, rode the wave of apathy, and awaited the end of my shift. I would only be employed at Hilton for six weeks after. Sarge would later tell me that I had received the "Hilton medal of Honor" and that I could never be fired. Nothing could be further from the truth.
The use, overuse, and expenditure of all of my Adderall eventually led to my using methamphetamine. A-Boy and I had the use of meth down to a science. You see, amphetamines are sensitive to Ph. If you take them with acids, they enter the blood stream faster but the bio-availability is lowered. This means less dope, and less time staying awake tweaking. We could have none of that, so we would take lots of alkaseltzer 15 minutes before we would dose. Then we would snort a tenth of a gram of glass. Time seemed to fly by, we were blissful at the peaks, and the valleys were filled with nightmarish depression and self-loathing. He used his school work as an excuse to stay awake. Me, personally, I liked tweaking out, staying awake for days on end. I had friends to hang out with and we could always find things to do. I would wrench on the motorcycle for hours, wrench on the truck, take computers apart and put them back together with the cables neatly wrapped, all the dust removed, and with more efficient cooling systems. We would tear down our operating systems and rebuild them for optimum performance. I can't count the hours I spent compiling Linux kernels. Our paranoia grew to the point where we would only use AIM across gAIM with gaim-encryption enabled. This meant our conversations were behind 1024 bit encryption, practically impossible to break. A-Boy got so paranoid about being "watched by the feds", that he stopped using a wireless keyboard because he swore they could hone in on the signal and figure out his side of the conversation. My weapon and ammunition collection grew as did the amount of time I spent on my motorcycle and the time I spent fucking Martina. Motorcycles, guns, and fucking, these are the things a tweaker holds most dear.
As she and I became much closer, Martina and A-Boy drifted apart. She invited me to go to Jackson, MS with her and her best friend who was in town from LA. Gretchen knew all about the affair, did not care for A-Boy, and did not judge either Martina or myself for our transgressions. This was a huge relief for me. I followed them down I-55 all the way to Jackson. We stopped once for gas and insufflated large amounts of glass in the bathroom on our way. We arrived at her parent's house to a very warm welcome. Her father really liked me and knew that there was something between us. She and I slept together in her old room; they had no objection. Although, we didn't exactly sleep. We stayed awake all night fucking and talking in our down time. The next day we hung out in Jackson and in the afternoon I returned back to Memphis. At this point I had been awake for some 72+ hours. I returned and hung out with A-boy as if nothing had happened. I was such a dick, oh well. He and I stayed up tweaking well into the next day. We went bike riding all over midtown, drank a few bottles of wine, and before I knew it, I had to be at work. I arrived at Hilton geeked out of my mind, full of paranoia, and immediately went to my seat. I had no desire to talk to everyone, I felt as if all eyes in the room were on me, and I was sick to my stomach from having drank so much wine the night and morning prior. I'm sure I looked like death. Later, Ole Sarge told me that he could tell I had not slept for some time. My hands were trembling and when I stood I was dizzy. Periodically I would see the "shadow people" from the corners of my vision and the occasional sparkling star patterns would envelop my vision and I felt like I would blackout.
Just as I was beginning to feel settled and at ease with the situation, you know, really in the groove of my work day, the manager came around and told everyone to go into break. The manager, whose name I do not recall, was a fat black woman. She hated me. She knew that I got along with all the supervisors, and they respected me. She had a horrible attitude and would like nothing more than to fire me. She made me last person to go into break and I had just answered the phone. I did not notice that the roar of talking around me had ceased. I saw everyone around me stand up and walk away. I remember finishing the call in 6min 30sec. I finished, stood up, turned around, and saw a sea of people who were all staring at me, there was a video camera, and the VP of Corporate communications. Everyone was clapping and I had no idea what was going on. There was cake, streamers, and balloons everywhere. Not knowing what the fuck was going on, I began walking down the aisle and nervously clapping. My heart was thumping, my head spinning, and my throat was in a battle with my stomach to keep the wine down. Then the VP said my name out loud and started congratulating me on being awarded the highest honor available to Hilton employees, "The Spirit of Hilton Award". I almost shit myself. Here I was, wasted on cheap red wine, I'm sure my lips were stained purple, and I hadn't slept in some four days and I was practically hallucinating from lack of sleep and I was winning an award. If only they knew how dependent I had become on "job performance enhancing drugs" they surely would have rushed me off to some kind of rehab where I would have been administered electroshock therapy and forced to talk about my feelings of hopelessness and why I felt I needed to use.
She went into a ramble about how I had gotten it for impressing the area president of Europe and Africa while Hilton Hotels Corporation was purchasing Hilton International. Whatever, I didn't care. All I could think about was how everyone in the room was staring at me, my clothes were disheveled, and I didn't know how to stand correctly without feeling out of place. Then she asked me to give a speech about my time at Hilton. I could barely think, I couldn't focus, and I do not remember at all what I said, but apparently I did a decent job and didn't give myself away. The VP then made me take a slice of cake and eat it. I could not stand to look at it, let alone taste it. I could only think of how sugary and disgusting the cake was. The icing, lard and sugar, in my mouth, my teeth, blue and yellow, and how my throat was so dry I could barely choke it down. If hell on earth could exist, this was certainly very close to it. I think my anxiety about the situation could have only been increased if I were standing naked in front of everyone after having taken a dip in a cold pool.
After rubbing elbows with people and thanking the people who "got me where I am today", I sat back down and continued working. I would do anything to make this situation stop. I then took a break, went to the bathroom, and swallowed several hydrocodone tablets. I could feel my heart slow, my breathing ease, and the anxiety melt away like cotton candy. I sat back, rode the wave of apathy, and awaited the end of my shift. I would only be employed at Hilton for six weeks after. Sarge would later tell me that I had received the "Hilton medal of Honor" and that I could never be fired. Nothing could be further from the truth.
Friday, May 8, 2009
A Foray into Stupidity, 2C-T-2
My great uncle was an amazing man. When I get older, I want people to compare me to him. If this happens I know I've lived a long and prosperous life. My Uncle Rodney is by far the kindest man I have ever known. He died from mesothelioma. He was an electrician and when he was younger he had been exposed to asbestos. My grandmother called me from Chicago University Hospital and told me that he would not make it through the night. At this point I freaked out. I wanted so badly to be able to go to Chicago and see him and tell him how much I thought of him before he passed, but there was no way I would make it in time. I felt trapped in my cubicle at work and wanted nothing more than to be able to get away. I felt anxiety and panic building in my stomach. I was nauseated, terrified, and I wanted to remove myself from the situation. I reached into my desk drawer and took 6mg of Xanax. An hour later it felt as if I had took nothing. I burst into tears, called my manager, Terri, and she told me to go home. I went back home and was calling my grandmother every 30 minutes for status updates. Uncle Rodney wasn't even conscious enough for me to speak with him on the phone. I was so upset by this that I walked down to Joe's, bought a fifth of gin, and started pounding gin and tonics. After I was halfway through the bottle I couldn't stand to be at home any more. I left, went to my friend Adrian and Cammy's and they were very supportive and really helped me get through the night. I got word in the morning that the visitation would be on March 4th, 2007 and the funeral on the following day.
While I am a very strong person and have always been one to keep my head through some intense experiences, dealing with death is not one of my strong suits. It's the helplessness of seeing so many upset people and not being able to do anything to improve their condition that I have a problem with. I hate feeling helpless or useless. I decided to go to the visitation completely sober. My mother, her boyfriend, and I all rode together. We went into Immaculate Conception. I walked in and was overwhelmed by both the beauty and tacky gaudiness of Catholicism. That night I did very well in holding myself together, said some kind words to my aunt and cousin, and then left. Once we got into the car I cried until we reached the bar. I drank three pitchers of beer and then returned home. Martina and A-Boy were waiting on my return. At this point Martina and I hadn't begun a romantic relationship and the three of us were great friends. She saw my headlights as I came up the driveway and ran outside to give me a hug.
"Payne-cakes! How are you doing?" I could smell her perfume. I still remember it hitting me in the face every time she would hug me. She smelled like honey suckles.
"I hate funerals. It was nice. My cousin seemed to be coping well. His wife looked good. Aunt Melinda seemed to be handling everything really well. I guess that they had been expecting this for a long time."
"Why don't you come up to our apartment so that you're not alone. Unless of course you want to be alone which I completely understand, but if you want friends, we're here for you. If you hang out with us though, at midnight it's A's birthday, so you have to be in a good mood. I'm sure we have something that can help you with that. Oh, and you have to wear a party hat."
"Okay, let me change out of these clothes and I'll be up. I need to put on something more comfortable." She gave me another hug and I went into my apartment and changed into my flannel pajama pants and a white t-shirt. I went barefoot up stairs to their apartment. A-boy was at the computer when I walked in. Their apartment was very warm and I could smell the heater was on full blast, which was very nice because it was a dreary and rainy day. A-boy walked up and gave me a hug, asked if I was okay, and then pardoned himself while he finished his school work. He finished up early and then we all sat in a circle and smoked a joint. We exchanged tales of various funerals and what not, and I felt much better. They were very empathetic and really understood what I was going through. They were great friends. A-boy and I walked into the secondary bedroom and examined the mushrooms. They were growing up pretty well. We took out various flasks and beakers and the conversation geared towards producing methacathinone. He told me how he had done it once, left the apartment with the equipment on high, and when he returned the heat had make the flask explode and the red hot Pyrex had left burn marks all over the floor. We both thought it was funny. I can't accurately describe his mannerisms, but when A-boy got worked up, he was a real hoot.
"It must be that time!" yelled Martina. She walked in wearing a birthday hat and threw confetti everywhere. "It's time for someone's birthday par-tay, you boys are right on schedule."
I wished him a happy birthday. "So what party favors would you like Payne-ee-cous?" Martina h had several variations on my name. Lots of them I don't remember. My room mate detested her. I'm sure they're burned into Floyd's memory forever. She opened up a cardboard jewellery box that was in the shape of a top hat. Around the bottom of it, it had a piece of notebook paper pasted to it that said, "Do you like my hat? Why yes I do! Thank you very much!" Yes it was silly, but it was appropriate. This was the dope hat and it is where the stash of only God knows what was kept. I said, "It's A's birthday and the birthday boy always gets the first piece of cake. Let him decide what he wants first." A-boy reached in pulled out several capsules with white to off-greyish powder in them and a triangular shaped orange tablet that had 3 holes in it. He put the capsules in one hand and the tablet in the other, raising one and then the other as if to represent scales.
"Hrm... I think I'll go with this one." He quickly popped one of the capsules into his mouth. Then looked at me all bright eyed with his "I'm very satisfied with myself" smile that I had seen all too often. Martina took the ecstasy tablet and I asked what was in the capsules after he dropped one in my hand.
"It's 2C-T-2. It's not as visually stimulating as 2C-I or 2C-T-7, but it's fun to trip on." I asked him for the who's and what's of the chemical trusting him 100%. There are not many people I would trust when it came to drugs. I have met very few people who's knowledge of them could rival my own. A-boy's far surpassed mine. He assured me that each of them was weighed out to 35mg +/-2mg. I took it, rolled another joint, and we all sat in a circle telling ridiculous stories, coloring, and drawing. We listened to upbeat music, trance, happy hardcore, and MSI. Martina was the first to feel her drugs, ours would take over an hour before we felt anything. She and I were on the couch laughing, and A-boy sat on the coffee table and we all had a good time.
Before the T2 set in, the first thing I felt was nausea. It felt as if I had swallowed a ball of cement and it was growing inside my stomach. It ached a little, but that soon passed. The nausea soon gave way to a light feeling. I felt a little stimulated, conversation seemed to flow easier, at least I was more talkative, and the lights began to get brighter. Minutes after the initial onset, my vision went to complete shit. Everything was very blurry and I was happy and giddy. My problems were miles behind me and I began laughing at the most simple things. I found that conversation was harder to follow and I couldn't help but smile. The muscle in my face seemed to be non-responsive. It felt like there were invisible strings attached to my face that were controlling the muscles and contorting my face into this stupid grin. I wondered if this was how Jack Nicholson's character would have felt in Batman after the bad plastic surgery job. My mind began to make farther and father reaching comparisons. I tried to talk, to comment on Martina's story.
"I know what you mean..." My dialogue was interrupted by my own fits of laughter. I was trying to hold it back, trying to convey what was going through my head, but nothing intelligible would come out. I was rocking back and forth trying to fight back the laughter at what I was about to say, but it wouldn't come out. I think we were talking about Vasquez, something about Johnny the Homicidal Maniac or Invader Zim. It was probably Invader Zim, because what then came out was, "Squirrel... hehehe... LIKE THIS!!! AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA" I fell to the ground. Everyone was laughing. I don't know if they were laughing at me or what I said, but I was rolling on the ground in laughter, completely unable to communicate all of the random thoughts that were going through my brain. It was as if I had been reduced to a six year-old serotogenic schizophrenic.
After hours of this going on, I realized it was very late and I had to go to bed. The funeral was about 4 hours away. My muscles ached and I was physically exhausted. A-boy gave me some Seroquel tablets so that I could sleep and so that I would be emotionally numb for the funeral. I hugged them both, thanked them for such a wonderful evening, and told them how happy I was that they were my friends. While there are many details about this night and what was said that I will not be able to remember, it was the night that I became very close to both of them.
While I am a very strong person and have always been one to keep my head through some intense experiences, dealing with death is not one of my strong suits. It's the helplessness of seeing so many upset people and not being able to do anything to improve their condition that I have a problem with. I hate feeling helpless or useless. I decided to go to the visitation completely sober. My mother, her boyfriend, and I all rode together. We went into Immaculate Conception. I walked in and was overwhelmed by both the beauty and tacky gaudiness of Catholicism. That night I did very well in holding myself together, said some kind words to my aunt and cousin, and then left. Once we got into the car I cried until we reached the bar. I drank three pitchers of beer and then returned home. Martina and A-Boy were waiting on my return. At this point Martina and I hadn't begun a romantic relationship and the three of us were great friends. She saw my headlights as I came up the driveway and ran outside to give me a hug.
"Payne-cakes! How are you doing?" I could smell her perfume. I still remember it hitting me in the face every time she would hug me. She smelled like honey suckles.
"I hate funerals. It was nice. My cousin seemed to be coping well. His wife looked good. Aunt Melinda seemed to be handling everything really well. I guess that they had been expecting this for a long time."
"Why don't you come up to our apartment so that you're not alone. Unless of course you want to be alone which I completely understand, but if you want friends, we're here for you. If you hang out with us though, at midnight it's A's birthday, so you have to be in a good mood. I'm sure we have something that can help you with that. Oh, and you have to wear a party hat."
"Okay, let me change out of these clothes and I'll be up. I need to put on something more comfortable." She gave me another hug and I went into my apartment and changed into my flannel pajama pants and a white t-shirt. I went barefoot up stairs to their apartment. A-boy was at the computer when I walked in. Their apartment was very warm and I could smell the heater was on full blast, which was very nice because it was a dreary and rainy day. A-boy walked up and gave me a hug, asked if I was okay, and then pardoned himself while he finished his school work. He finished up early and then we all sat in a circle and smoked a joint. We exchanged tales of various funerals and what not, and I felt much better. They were very empathetic and really understood what I was going through. They were great friends. A-boy and I walked into the secondary bedroom and examined the mushrooms. They were growing up pretty well. We took out various flasks and beakers and the conversation geared towards producing methacathinone. He told me how he had done it once, left the apartment with the equipment on high, and when he returned the heat had make the flask explode and the red hot Pyrex had left burn marks all over the floor. We both thought it was funny. I can't accurately describe his mannerisms, but when A-boy got worked up, he was a real hoot.
"It must be that time!" yelled Martina. She walked in wearing a birthday hat and threw confetti everywhere. "It's time for someone's birthday par-tay, you boys are right on schedule."
I wished him a happy birthday. "So what party favors would you like Payne-ee-cous?" Martina h had several variations on my name. Lots of them I don't remember. My room mate detested her. I'm sure they're burned into Floyd's memory forever. She opened up a cardboard jewellery box that was in the shape of a top hat. Around the bottom of it, it had a piece of notebook paper pasted to it that said, "Do you like my hat? Why yes I do! Thank you very much!" Yes it was silly, but it was appropriate. This was the dope hat and it is where the stash of only God knows what was kept. I said, "It's A's birthday and the birthday boy always gets the first piece of cake. Let him decide what he wants first." A-boy reached in pulled out several capsules with white to off-greyish powder in them and a triangular shaped orange tablet that had 3 holes in it. He put the capsules in one hand and the tablet in the other, raising one and then the other as if to represent scales.
"Hrm... I think I'll go with this one." He quickly popped one of the capsules into his mouth. Then looked at me all bright eyed with his "I'm very satisfied with myself" smile that I had seen all too often. Martina took the ecstasy tablet and I asked what was in the capsules after he dropped one in my hand.
"It's 2C-T-2. It's not as visually stimulating as 2C-I or 2C-T-7, but it's fun to trip on." I asked him for the who's and what's of the chemical trusting him 100%. There are not many people I would trust when it came to drugs. I have met very few people who's knowledge of them could rival my own. A-boy's far surpassed mine. He assured me that each of them was weighed out to 35mg +/-2mg. I took it, rolled another joint, and we all sat in a circle telling ridiculous stories, coloring, and drawing. We listened to upbeat music, trance, happy hardcore, and MSI. Martina was the first to feel her drugs, ours would take over an hour before we felt anything. She and I were on the couch laughing, and A-boy sat on the coffee table and we all had a good time.
Before the T2 set in, the first thing I felt was nausea. It felt as if I had swallowed a ball of cement and it was growing inside my stomach. It ached a little, but that soon passed. The nausea soon gave way to a light feeling. I felt a little stimulated, conversation seemed to flow easier, at least I was more talkative, and the lights began to get brighter. Minutes after the initial onset, my vision went to complete shit. Everything was very blurry and I was happy and giddy. My problems were miles behind me and I began laughing at the most simple things. I found that conversation was harder to follow and I couldn't help but smile. The muscle in my face seemed to be non-responsive. It felt like there were invisible strings attached to my face that were controlling the muscles and contorting my face into this stupid grin. I wondered if this was how Jack Nicholson's character would have felt in Batman after the bad plastic surgery job. My mind began to make farther and father reaching comparisons. I tried to talk, to comment on Martina's story.
"I know what you mean..." My dialogue was interrupted by my own fits of laughter. I was trying to hold it back, trying to convey what was going through my head, but nothing intelligible would come out. I was rocking back and forth trying to fight back the laughter at what I was about to say, but it wouldn't come out. I think we were talking about Vasquez, something about Johnny the Homicidal Maniac or Invader Zim. It was probably Invader Zim, because what then came out was, "Squirrel... hehehe... LIKE THIS!!! AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA" I fell to the ground. Everyone was laughing. I don't know if they were laughing at me or what I said, but I was rolling on the ground in laughter, completely unable to communicate all of the random thoughts that were going through my brain. It was as if I had been reduced to a six year-old serotogenic schizophrenic.
After hours of this going on, I realized it was very late and I had to go to bed. The funeral was about 4 hours away. My muscles ached and I was physically exhausted. A-boy gave me some Seroquel tablets so that I could sleep and so that I would be emotionally numb for the funeral. I hugged them both, thanked them for such a wonderful evening, and told them how happy I was that they were my friends. While there are many details about this night and what was said that I will not be able to remember, it was the night that I became very close to both of them.
Thursday, April 30, 2009
Thanks, Elle
It was another warm summer night and me and my friend Johnny were entirely too bored. We had gone through our usual outlets to try and score some MDMA from Tommy the Asian, but he was too smacked out of his mind to try and do anything productive. Tommy was on the outs with his Laotian friends because of his increased heroin use. At this point in my life I had no idea what heroin was about, I just knew that from watching Tommy's downward spiral that I wanted no part of it. Previously, Tommy had the best rolls in town. They were always the same; blue Porches. They were pure MDMA, no speed, no MDA, no PMA, no bullshit. Well, as previously stated, this wasn't going to happen tonight.
Johnny had given me money for "some rolls or some trip or some shit like that". Johnny and I had a language no other person on the planet could really understand. That was in part to his nearly incomprehensible accent. No, accent is not even the right word. The man barely spoke English. When we first began hanging out, he would call me on the phone and without his body language and being able to read his lips, I had no fucking clue what the man was talking about. Initially, his girlfriend, Amy, had to translate everything for me. You see, he was from Cullman County, Alabama, and his teeth were rotting out from years of abuse. His accent was so heavy that he pronounced, and for months, I thought he was from Oldeman County, Alabama, a place I could not find on any map.
The third player tonight was Elle Boogy. I love Elle like a little sister. She and I grew up together since elementary school. If you took a Barbie doll and shrunk her down to about 4'4", that would be Elle. She and her beau Paul were broken up and she was with some new guy named Bear. I'm not even changing this guy's name. His Christian name on his fucking birth certificate was Bear. He was only slightly taller than Elle and from what I could tell, White trash. Now, I'm not one to judge and given my past I hardly have a leg to stand on and presently I only have one leg I can really stand on, but Bear was no good. Through him she had connections to mushroom chocolates. A week prior I had gotten some from her that were almost no good. I had eaten one and it was so weak that outside of a few chills, slightly distorted vision, and a little head change that only peaked at slight confusion. I was sorely disappointed.
I had taken the money Johnny had given me, called her, complained, and she swore that the new chocolates were a lot better. She said that half of one was stronger than the two she had eaten last week and she apologized profusely. Now, I had no reason to doubt Elle, she was a sweet little girl, and I do mean little, but I didn't trust Bear. I really didn't trust his redneck friends and this was the source. I picked up 6 of the chocolates and she gave me two extra. I rode over to her mom's house on my motorcycle, picked them up, and rode back over to Johnny's.
"What de fuck is dis shit? Deez ain't no fuckin' trips! Dis' is fuckin' candy. That purty little girl dun ripped you off." He interjected with his laugh, which if spelled phonetically would be something like, "Ah-haw. Ah-haw. Ah-haw."
"Germy," (he has never pronounced my name with three syllables) "boy, I don't know what to do about you. We ain't even goin' to get to try these out tonight. Casey is commin' over here so here, you try a few before we all do them tomorrow night and tell me how they treat you."
He gave me two of the chocolates, wrapped in foil. I nodded, unwrapped one, and ate it just as I had eaten the one the week prior. This time, however, something was a little different. It was the same kind of baker's chocolate, but this time, it was horribly more bitter, grittier, and I even came across some straw like material. I bit the second one in half and examined the middle of it. The center was full of this whiteish gray like straw and powder that was held together with chocolate. Johnny kept me there until Casey arrived. Within the ten minutes that had passed, I began to feel disassociated, off balance, and the lights in the room had gotten considerably brighter. I knew this was going to be different when I got the goose bumps and cold chills that start at my elbows and shot both up and down my arms at the same time. The hair on my arms was standing at attention, and I looked like I was slowly turning into Teen Wolf. I decided it was time to go.
On my way to my bike, I nearly tripped over the curb, my own shoes, and then almost fell over my the Kawasaki and planted both it and myself onto the pavement. Lucky for me it was a very light bike and when I fell, I was able to keep it from completely dropping and caught myself with the other arm. This would indeed be a very different experience. I noticed on the ride home that the cold chills had subsided and I was very much enjoying the warm night air. One by one as I passed under the street lights I noticed my attention was being diverted from the road in front of me and up to them. At one stop sign I took my glasses off and just stared up at the stars. They were beautiful, not only twinkling, but together they were winking at me, as if they were collectively trying to tell me something in Morse code, some cosmic secret that they were always trying to tap out but I was ordinarily too busy to notice.
I decided not to go straight home, but rather, to ride around a bit through some of the winding country roads. I enjoyed this until I had to come to a stop and then pick back up again. I realized that my motor skills were so badly distorted that I had trouble working the clutch and the gear shift. I stalled the bike out, it puttered and convulsed to a stop, and then I had trouble cranking it back up. A police officer was passing and slowed down once he realized I was having trouble. Luckily, I was able to get the bike going again and he didn't pull me over. This was a good thing on many levels. For one, I'm sure my eyes were dilated, two I had no motorcycle endorsement on my license, no insurance, and I don't think I could have effectively communicated my identity or address to him with an English sentence. I made my way back home and almost spilled pulling into the drive way.
Once I had gotten off of my bike I noticed that when walking I certainly was very dizzy, but had a lot more energy, was moving very quickly, and all of this combined with the auras and halos I was seeing around everything made me very nauseous. I decided at this point to cool off, I went to lay down and my head felt extraordinarily heavy. I hadn't even taken off my helmet. I collapsed on my back in my front yard. I'm very glad that my neighbors were good sports. I looked up at the stars and watched as they began to move around one another. Organizing in clusters, making patterns, and then systematically scattering back into their original formations. I felt lighter and the grass felt cool against my skin. For a moment I felt like I was hovering above the grass. I felt kind of itchy, then I felt bugs on me. I jumped up swiping them away, but there were none there. I started scratching all over and I felt like something was in my throat. It was scratchy. I tried to cough it up, but I couldn't. My hair felt like it was growing and the physical sensations I felt were very unnerving. The itching became much worse. I took my shirt off and began clawing at my chest and back. Then as if I weren't uncomfortable enough, my mucus membranes woke up. Here I was, in my front yard, shirtless, scratching like a caveman, all while snorting, sniffing, blowing, coughing, and spitting, trying to expel all the mucus that I was producing. I don't know for how long this continued, but after a while I felt even more nauseous and went to the side of the house where I dry heaved a few times and drenched myself with the water hose and dried myself off with my shirt.
After this show in the front yard at 1AM, I decided to go inside. I felt really warm and decided to strip down to my boxers. It felt very good to take off my clunky boots. I remember spreading out on my bed and wiggling my toes, but I could not get this almost allergic reaction to stop. I turned the lights off and put on some music. I listened to Jack Johnson on repeat for a few hours. The music must have really gotten me going, because I went into a frenzy and decided to clean my room. I use the word "clean" because at the time, that's what I decided to do, because I couldn't find anything and I was getting increasingly more frustrated with the condition of my room. I began to think that my life was just as cluttered and that I hadn't found my purpose or rather that I was avoiding it. This really made me mad and instead of cleaning my room, I went into the kitchen, got several large lawn bags out of the pantry and returned. I started searching my rooms in the manner of a drug enforcement agent. I was emptying drawers into the floor, flipping the mattress over, taking the mattress off of the box springs and the bed frame. I took everything out from under the bed and threw it into the center of the room and then I moved to the closet, the dark, ominous walk-in closet.
At first I was completely mortified by the idea. I knew I wouldn't like what I would find. The door was slightly cracked open and that really bothered me. It reminded me of the scene from Lost Boys when the mother puts the youngest to bed. I flipped out, dove to the floor and covered myself with my blankets. I still don't know what I was scared of or why I had any negative thoughts at all, but then I started hearing this bell going off. I was taking random objects that were on the floor and began tossing them at the closet door wondering what it could have been making that noise: a shoe, darts, a dirty balled-up sock... Then I realized that the sound was coming from my computer. I realized further, that I was getting instant messages from my friend, Dove. I began laughing hysterically. I went to the computer, sat down, and began chatting with her. She made me feel much more at ease and I was able to very easily pound out my ideas on the keyboard. After she went to bed I attacked the closet, going through my things, trying to throw out everything that I didn't need. I eventually nodded off and fell asleep on a pile of clothes in my closet.
I awoke the next morning to a shit storm in my room, I was exhausted, and I really wanted to just relax. I did however finish the task I started, and cleaned out and completely rearranged my room. I felt beter about my situation in life afterwards and had come to the conclusion that I had to et out of my dad's house and get a better job than what I had at MCI. The trip would change my train of thought for the better, and my life would undergo some major changes in the following weeks.
Johnny had given me money for "some rolls or some trip or some shit like that". Johnny and I had a language no other person on the planet could really understand. That was in part to his nearly incomprehensible accent. No, accent is not even the right word. The man barely spoke English. When we first began hanging out, he would call me on the phone and without his body language and being able to read his lips, I had no fucking clue what the man was talking about. Initially, his girlfriend, Amy, had to translate everything for me. You see, he was from Cullman County, Alabama, and his teeth were rotting out from years of abuse. His accent was so heavy that he pronounced, and for months, I thought he was from Oldeman County, Alabama, a place I could not find on any map.
The third player tonight was Elle Boogy. I love Elle like a little sister. She and I grew up together since elementary school. If you took a Barbie doll and shrunk her down to about 4'4", that would be Elle. She and her beau Paul were broken up and she was with some new guy named Bear. I'm not even changing this guy's name. His Christian name on his fucking birth certificate was Bear. He was only slightly taller than Elle and from what I could tell, White trash. Now, I'm not one to judge and given my past I hardly have a leg to stand on and presently I only have one leg I can really stand on, but Bear was no good. Through him she had connections to mushroom chocolates. A week prior I had gotten some from her that were almost no good. I had eaten one and it was so weak that outside of a few chills, slightly distorted vision, and a little head change that only peaked at slight confusion. I was sorely disappointed.
I had taken the money Johnny had given me, called her, complained, and she swore that the new chocolates were a lot better. She said that half of one was stronger than the two she had eaten last week and she apologized profusely. Now, I had no reason to doubt Elle, she was a sweet little girl, and I do mean little, but I didn't trust Bear. I really didn't trust his redneck friends and this was the source. I picked up 6 of the chocolates and she gave me two extra. I rode over to her mom's house on my motorcycle, picked them up, and rode back over to Johnny's.
"What de fuck is dis shit? Deez ain't no fuckin' trips! Dis' is fuckin' candy. That purty little girl dun ripped you off." He interjected with his laugh, which if spelled phonetically would be something like, "Ah-haw. Ah-haw. Ah-haw."
"Germy," (he has never pronounced my name with three syllables) "boy, I don't know what to do about you. We ain't even goin' to get to try these out tonight. Casey is commin' over here so here, you try a few before we all do them tomorrow night and tell me how they treat you."
He gave me two of the chocolates, wrapped in foil. I nodded, unwrapped one, and ate it just as I had eaten the one the week prior. This time, however, something was a little different. It was the same kind of baker's chocolate, but this time, it was horribly more bitter, grittier, and I even came across some straw like material. I bit the second one in half and examined the middle of it. The center was full of this whiteish gray like straw and powder that was held together with chocolate. Johnny kept me there until Casey arrived. Within the ten minutes that had passed, I began to feel disassociated, off balance, and the lights in the room had gotten considerably brighter. I knew this was going to be different when I got the goose bumps and cold chills that start at my elbows and shot both up and down my arms at the same time. The hair on my arms was standing at attention, and I looked like I was slowly turning into Teen Wolf. I decided it was time to go.
On my way to my bike, I nearly tripped over the curb, my own shoes, and then almost fell over my the Kawasaki and planted both it and myself onto the pavement. Lucky for me it was a very light bike and when I fell, I was able to keep it from completely dropping and caught myself with the other arm. This would indeed be a very different experience. I noticed on the ride home that the cold chills had subsided and I was very much enjoying the warm night air. One by one as I passed under the street lights I noticed my attention was being diverted from the road in front of me and up to them. At one stop sign I took my glasses off and just stared up at the stars. They were beautiful, not only twinkling, but together they were winking at me, as if they were collectively trying to tell me something in Morse code, some cosmic secret that they were always trying to tap out but I was ordinarily too busy to notice.
I decided not to go straight home, but rather, to ride around a bit through some of the winding country roads. I enjoyed this until I had to come to a stop and then pick back up again. I realized that my motor skills were so badly distorted that I had trouble working the clutch and the gear shift. I stalled the bike out, it puttered and convulsed to a stop, and then I had trouble cranking it back up. A police officer was passing and slowed down once he realized I was having trouble. Luckily, I was able to get the bike going again and he didn't pull me over. This was a good thing on many levels. For one, I'm sure my eyes were dilated, two I had no motorcycle endorsement on my license, no insurance, and I don't think I could have effectively communicated my identity or address to him with an English sentence. I made my way back home and almost spilled pulling into the drive way.
Once I had gotten off of my bike I noticed that when walking I certainly was very dizzy, but had a lot more energy, was moving very quickly, and all of this combined with the auras and halos I was seeing around everything made me very nauseous. I decided at this point to cool off, I went to lay down and my head felt extraordinarily heavy. I hadn't even taken off my helmet. I collapsed on my back in my front yard. I'm very glad that my neighbors were good sports. I looked up at the stars and watched as they began to move around one another. Organizing in clusters, making patterns, and then systematically scattering back into their original formations. I felt lighter and the grass felt cool against my skin. For a moment I felt like I was hovering above the grass. I felt kind of itchy, then I felt bugs on me. I jumped up swiping them away, but there were none there. I started scratching all over and I felt like something was in my throat. It was scratchy. I tried to cough it up, but I couldn't. My hair felt like it was growing and the physical sensations I felt were very unnerving. The itching became much worse. I took my shirt off and began clawing at my chest and back. Then as if I weren't uncomfortable enough, my mucus membranes woke up. Here I was, in my front yard, shirtless, scratching like a caveman, all while snorting, sniffing, blowing, coughing, and spitting, trying to expel all the mucus that I was producing. I don't know for how long this continued, but after a while I felt even more nauseous and went to the side of the house where I dry heaved a few times and drenched myself with the water hose and dried myself off with my shirt.
After this show in the front yard at 1AM, I decided to go inside. I felt really warm and decided to strip down to my boxers. It felt very good to take off my clunky boots. I remember spreading out on my bed and wiggling my toes, but I could not get this almost allergic reaction to stop. I turned the lights off and put on some music. I listened to Jack Johnson on repeat for a few hours. The music must have really gotten me going, because I went into a frenzy and decided to clean my room. I use the word "clean" because at the time, that's what I decided to do, because I couldn't find anything and I was getting increasingly more frustrated with the condition of my room. I began to think that my life was just as cluttered and that I hadn't found my purpose or rather that I was avoiding it. This really made me mad and instead of cleaning my room, I went into the kitchen, got several large lawn bags out of the pantry and returned. I started searching my rooms in the manner of a drug enforcement agent. I was emptying drawers into the floor, flipping the mattress over, taking the mattress off of the box springs and the bed frame. I took everything out from under the bed and threw it into the center of the room and then I moved to the closet, the dark, ominous walk-in closet.
At first I was completely mortified by the idea. I knew I wouldn't like what I would find. The door was slightly cracked open and that really bothered me. It reminded me of the scene from Lost Boys when the mother puts the youngest to bed. I flipped out, dove to the floor and covered myself with my blankets. I still don't know what I was scared of or why I had any negative thoughts at all, but then I started hearing this bell going off. I was taking random objects that were on the floor and began tossing them at the closet door wondering what it could have been making that noise: a shoe, darts, a dirty balled-up sock... Then I realized that the sound was coming from my computer. I realized further, that I was getting instant messages from my friend, Dove. I began laughing hysterically. I went to the computer, sat down, and began chatting with her. She made me feel much more at ease and I was able to very easily pound out my ideas on the keyboard. After she went to bed I attacked the closet, going through my things, trying to throw out everything that I didn't need. I eventually nodded off and fell asleep on a pile of clothes in my closet.
I awoke the next morning to a shit storm in my room, I was exhausted, and I really wanted to just relax. I did however finish the task I started, and cleaned out and completely rearranged my room. I felt beter about my situation in life afterwards and had come to the conclusion that I had to et out of my dad's house and get a better job than what I had at MCI. The trip would change my train of thought for the better, and my life would undergo some major changes in the following weeks.
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
Crucifix-ios
I have an idea for a Christian children's cereal. I had to get this published as quickly as possible so that I could get credit for it before that big ole mean devil gives it to some long haired liberal:
little oat crosses, whole grain of course.
marshmallows as follows:
yellow holy grails
green palm leaves
red hearts (the vision of Mother Teresa)
pink vaginas, obviously for Mary Magdaline's snatch
blue Stars of David, hey, Jesus was a Jew!
little white silver pieces that Judas Iscariot received for betraying Jesus
The best part, when you add milk, it it turns red.
Now just think of it, "Eat of my flesh, drink of my blood, receive eternal life, eat your Crucifix-ios"
little oat crosses, whole grain of course.
marshmallows as follows:
yellow holy grails
green palm leaves
red hearts (the vision of Mother Teresa)
pink vaginas, obviously for Mary Magdaline's snatch
blue Stars of David, hey, Jesus was a Jew!
little white silver pieces that Judas Iscariot received for betraying Jesus
The best part, when you add milk, it it turns red.
Now just think of it, "Eat of my flesh, drink of my blood, receive eternal life, eat your Crucifix-ios"
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
7-7-7 Part 3: Fear and Loathing in Tunica
I don't remember much of the ride to Tunica. I do remember after doing the first few lines of cocaine my brain was completely scattered. I was beginning to believe that we were being chased by police. The paranoia and anxiety were overwhelming. I thought that Elvis was an undercover agent. The pistol, the drugs, the casino, I thought it was all one big red herring. I hid behind my aviators. If people could not see my eyes and I didn't speak, no one would know how out of my mind I really was. I agreed with whatever suggestions Elvis had made. I currently can find no words to describe the amount of fear and dread I had looming over me. I was completely consumed by it. Every thought, every action, every step I made, I felt I was being observed, monitored, and judged.
We entered the casino and surprisingly it wasn't overly full for the 7th day of July in 2007. We sat down at a roulette wheel and immediately the board blanked out. This even greater led to the ominous feeling that something bigger than me had intentions on my having a disastrous evening. While I do possess the ability to think logically, when it comes to gambling, I throw logic out the window, with the exception of odds and probability, and I find myself easily giving into the delusions of luck. We commented to the pit boss and he said that the board was on the fritz. This would continue to happen throughout the evening. For me, it meant that I would not be able to see what numbers had previously come up, and would have a harder time predicting the numbers that were yet to arise. No matter, there were drugs to be done.
Elvis would palm off the bullet to me at intervals and I would go to the bathroom stall to toot up. I was not the only one in the casino who had this idea. I couldn't have been. Why else would there be people making huffing and sniffing noises from a bathroom stall? Oh God, perhaps it is best if I just think they were all doing cocaine. After running back and forth to the bathroom a few times, we were both increasingly thirsty.
It's imperative that I state that at this time in my life I did not drink bourbon. I drank gin, only gin, and I drank it with zeal. This day however, I felt that by ordering a gin and tonic and trying to speak on my own would alert the authorities that I was out of my mind and I would be thrown out or arrested. Elvis was ordering Jack Daniels by the shot. Following suit, I did the same. He told them that I didn't talk much, they probably thought I was a retard with big sunglasses and Elvis was my handler. Being about the same size and having just shaved his head as well, we probably looked like to Neo-Nazi goons. After waiting for a half hour for an ordered drink, giving the waitress a dollar when she took the order, another when she returned, a third immediately upon taking the shot, and asking for another, Elvis was very unhappy with the service.
"Payne, take your money off the table. We're not going to play. BOSS! Pit Boss! We came here to drink and spend money in your casino. If you want us to spend money, we need shots. We'll take good care of the ladies, but we won't be thirsty while we play roulette."
The boss understood, the ladies, returned, and they remained at our beck and call for the evening. We were tipping rather well, but we were also doing very well at the wheel. My mind, having been in such a negative space, was stuck on Martina. I was playing her birthday, my mom's birthday, my birthday, and my sister's birthday: 6, 7, 8, 11, 12, and 16. When I play roulette I always play 9 numbers. When I get up I start to play more, but I always play 9. The other number I would play were the ones that appeared to visually rise off of the table. As I was vividly hallucinating, the numbers appeared to be growing and shrinking. The numbers that grew the largest with the brightest halos encircling them were the numbers I picked.
Four hours, twenty one shots of Jack Daniels, and three Heineken later, Elvis and I were completely fucked. I however, being on copious amounts of LSD, did not appear to be nearly as drunk as him. After spending our time there, we asked for our buffet tickets, and made our way to the opposite end of the casino. En route, Elvis detoured to the bathroom where he spent 20 minutes throwing up. I practically carried him into the buffet area, where we both filled up plates, and he then went back to the bathroom to vomit some more. I went to the casino gift shop and purchased some Alka-Seltzer tablets. After dragging him back to the buffet area, I gave him the good ole "plop, plop, fizz, fizz" and he was able to hold down his meal.
I am unlike any person I have ever met when it comes to cocaine. Cocaine will stimulate my appetite and I can ravenously eat several large portions without hesitation. Being the American that I am, I ate until I could barely walk. Elvis and I stumbled out of the casino and he began to drive us home. It was at this point I discovered his psychological illness. He began to tell me about his trials and tribulations with Zyprexa after having been diagnosed schizophrenic. I did not have my glasses, it was night time, I was wearing sunglasses, on too many drugs, and I was lost. I however, was not bothered by this. I was more concerned with my driver's ability to color inside the lines and not go off the page.
After an hour and a half we make it back to his house near Lamar. Elvis immediately passed out and uttered the phrase, "mi casa es su casa" before collapsing on his sofa. I certainly did not have the capacity to sit there alone on a head full of drugs in his house without any form of entertainment. I had to get out, but I didn't have a vehicle and there were a few miles of dangerous territory between his home and mine. I set off walking in the direction of my home, at midnight, wearing sunglasses, having nothing more for protection than a pocket knife, and too many chemicals coursing through my veins to have the sense to be scared. After getting lost in Orange Mound and finally recognizing Cooper, I made it to the Young Ave Deli. Upon arrival I called Floyd who didn't mind my calling him at 1:30AM to pick me up and bring me home safely. I guess he figured an annoying room mate who paid the bills was better than a dead room mate who did not. I would say I gambled quite a bit that day and was very happy to return home to the safety of my own bed.
We entered the casino and surprisingly it wasn't overly full for the 7th day of July in 2007. We sat down at a roulette wheel and immediately the board blanked out. This even greater led to the ominous feeling that something bigger than me had intentions on my having a disastrous evening. While I do possess the ability to think logically, when it comes to gambling, I throw logic out the window, with the exception of odds and probability, and I find myself easily giving into the delusions of luck. We commented to the pit boss and he said that the board was on the fritz. This would continue to happen throughout the evening. For me, it meant that I would not be able to see what numbers had previously come up, and would have a harder time predicting the numbers that were yet to arise. No matter, there were drugs to be done.
Elvis would palm off the bullet to me at intervals and I would go to the bathroom stall to toot up. I was not the only one in the casino who had this idea. I couldn't have been. Why else would there be people making huffing and sniffing noises from a bathroom stall? Oh God, perhaps it is best if I just think they were all doing cocaine. After running back and forth to the bathroom a few times, we were both increasingly thirsty.
It's imperative that I state that at this time in my life I did not drink bourbon. I drank gin, only gin, and I drank it with zeal. This day however, I felt that by ordering a gin and tonic and trying to speak on my own would alert the authorities that I was out of my mind and I would be thrown out or arrested. Elvis was ordering Jack Daniels by the shot. Following suit, I did the same. He told them that I didn't talk much, they probably thought I was a retard with big sunglasses and Elvis was my handler. Being about the same size and having just shaved his head as well, we probably looked like to Neo-Nazi goons. After waiting for a half hour for an ordered drink, giving the waitress a dollar when she took the order, another when she returned, a third immediately upon taking the shot, and asking for another, Elvis was very unhappy with the service.
"Payne, take your money off the table. We're not going to play. BOSS! Pit Boss! We came here to drink and spend money in your casino. If you want us to spend money, we need shots. We'll take good care of the ladies, but we won't be thirsty while we play roulette."
The boss understood, the ladies, returned, and they remained at our beck and call for the evening. We were tipping rather well, but we were also doing very well at the wheel. My mind, having been in such a negative space, was stuck on Martina. I was playing her birthday, my mom's birthday, my birthday, and my sister's birthday: 6, 7, 8, 11, 12, and 16. When I play roulette I always play 9 numbers. When I get up I start to play more, but I always play 9. The other number I would play were the ones that appeared to visually rise off of the table. As I was vividly hallucinating, the numbers appeared to be growing and shrinking. The numbers that grew the largest with the brightest halos encircling them were the numbers I picked.
Four hours, twenty one shots of Jack Daniels, and three Heineken later, Elvis and I were completely fucked. I however, being on copious amounts of LSD, did not appear to be nearly as drunk as him. After spending our time there, we asked for our buffet tickets, and made our way to the opposite end of the casino. En route, Elvis detoured to the bathroom where he spent 20 minutes throwing up. I practically carried him into the buffet area, where we both filled up plates, and he then went back to the bathroom to vomit some more. I went to the casino gift shop and purchased some Alka-Seltzer tablets. After dragging him back to the buffet area, I gave him the good ole "plop, plop, fizz, fizz" and he was able to hold down his meal.
I am unlike any person I have ever met when it comes to cocaine. Cocaine will stimulate my appetite and I can ravenously eat several large portions without hesitation. Being the American that I am, I ate until I could barely walk. Elvis and I stumbled out of the casino and he began to drive us home. It was at this point I discovered his psychological illness. He began to tell me about his trials and tribulations with Zyprexa after having been diagnosed schizophrenic. I did not have my glasses, it was night time, I was wearing sunglasses, on too many drugs, and I was lost. I however, was not bothered by this. I was more concerned with my driver's ability to color inside the lines and not go off the page.
After an hour and a half we make it back to his house near Lamar. Elvis immediately passed out and uttered the phrase, "mi casa es su casa" before collapsing on his sofa. I certainly did not have the capacity to sit there alone on a head full of drugs in his house without any form of entertainment. I had to get out, but I didn't have a vehicle and there were a few miles of dangerous territory between his home and mine. I set off walking in the direction of my home, at midnight, wearing sunglasses, having nothing more for protection than a pocket knife, and too many chemicals coursing through my veins to have the sense to be scared. After getting lost in Orange Mound and finally recognizing Cooper, I made it to the Young Ave Deli. Upon arrival I called Floyd who didn't mind my calling him at 1:30AM to pick me up and bring me home safely. I guess he figured an annoying room mate who paid the bills was better than a dead room mate who did not. I would say I gambled quite a bit that day and was very happy to return home to the safety of my own bed.
Saturday, April 25, 2009
7-7-7 Part 2: Gearing Up
My friend Jack has gotten me into more trouble than anyone I know. After returning home from certain death or disfigurement on the pavement, I walk in to apartment to find a strange man standing in my living room. I scream and fling my motorcycle helmet at him, but don't come anywhere close. It's just Jack. He said he had heard about the untimely end of my affair with Martina and brought over a bottle of bourbon. Ordinarily I wouldn't touch the stuff, I much prefer gin and tonic, but I wasn't myself. Jack mentioned a friend of his who went by the name of Elvis who was looking to trade a F&N Herstal FiveSeven for two pounds of weed and wanted me to ride with him for the trade. I asked if the guy was white trash with a name like Elvis, but he insisted that the guy was real cool and didn't like people to know his real name. Jack, at this point, failed to mention that I had already met Elvis at a party and he is a raging coke head, alcoholic, and borders on anti-social. Thinking I would get to meet someone new and because I had nothing else to do at this point, I decided to go along.
Having to be in the company of someone you don't care for and being on a headfull of acid is not a good idea. You might come to say or do things which would be uncharacteristic. We arrive at "Elvis's" house on Manilla near Lamar. Jack knocks on the front door, no answer. He taps on the window. No answer. We hear the sound of a gun being racked. "Who the fuck is there?" yelled out in a loud cajun accent from inside. Jack replies, "It's just us, man. I've got my backpack and it's hot outside, can we come in?" Normally, this would have been enough for me to leave, but normal rode out a long time ago. He tells us to go to the back door and he'll let us in. We walk around the small fence and I can hear someone turning the locks on the door. Slowly the door creeks open but no one is standing there. We walk in and the guy closes the door behind us. I'm in shock and immediately recognize the guy. He is coked out of his mind, has a pistol in one hand, the door in the other, and has no idea who I am. He asks who I am, but I don't reply, Jack intervenes. "This is my friend J. He's a nice guy. Doesn't talk much though. He was just here for the ride."
Jack hands over the bag full supposedly full of pot. Elvis walks us into another room. There's a big screen, a leather couch, and a glass coffee table with a shoe box lid covered with cocaine. Elvis sits down and does a line, offers us some, we both decline, nasty stuff. Elvis pulls the almost kilo of pot out of the bag. He looks at it and inspects it very closely. "This stuff's old and has gone moldy. No wonder you only wanted 800 for all of it. I can't do nothing with this. Nobody will buy it. If you want the pistol, the light, and the ammo, I need shit I can sale. Go back home and get me the other bud." Jack tried his best to convince him otherwise, "Naw man, that white stuff? Man those are THC crystals. I told you I didn't kief this stuff first." I could tell Jack was lying. Elvis put the bud back into the backpack, opened the window, dropped it onto the ground and said, "Get out. Stop wasting my time and come back when you have some decent stuff." We leave.
We're headed back to my place and I lay into him.
"What the FUCK was that about? You bring me along for a drug for gun trade and the drugs aren't even good? Have you lost your fucking mind? He's a coke and weapons dealer. You don't even own a gun, Jack. Why would you even do business with this guy? Don't you know he can just take your shit? You dumb mother-fucker!"
"Man, be cool."
"Be cool?!? Me? I'm on a headfull of acid right now. I know that guy. You know I knew him and you didn't tell me who he was. Why the fuck would you do that? God damnit, just take me home you stupid fuck!"
"Man, be cool."
Jack's phone rings. I can't tell what is being said, but apparently it's Elvis. Jack sums up the conversation for me.
"That was Elvis. He said he recognized you as being Martina's 'stand in boyfriend' while A was off studying. He wanted to know if you wanted any coke... I told him it wasn't your thing."
"No, no I don't want any fucking coke. I want to go home."
"He also said to tell you that Martina is a two bit whore and you shouldn't be upset about her."
Now I was not only pissed off, but confused, frustrated and bordering on enraged.
We get back to my house and I help Jack start to clean off the buds. We are using a solution of 20 parts water to 1 part vinegar to remove the mold from the pot, then we place it all under a cake lid with tangerine peels to "cure" and change the smell. This was not a problem for me because it allowed me to take my stress out on the tangerines, peeling them and compulsively devouring them one after another. After a few hours of being under the cake lid, it worked. The smell was completely different and the pot had "fluffed" up a bit. We returned to Elvis's place to find him full of cocaine. He made the transaction with Jack and then invited me to join him at the casinos:
"So Payne, you a gamblin' man? I'm going down to the casinos, have a quarter ounce of blow to take with me, and would like some company. Do you play roulette?"
Fuck, was this really happening? Did I just get an offer from Satan himself to forget my troubles and play my favorite casino game on a head full of cocaine and LSD. I believe I did. I gladly took him up on his offer, ditched Jack because I was pissed at him, and headed for Tunica.
Having to be in the company of someone you don't care for and being on a headfull of acid is not a good idea. You might come to say or do things which would be uncharacteristic. We arrive at "Elvis's" house on Manilla near Lamar. Jack knocks on the front door, no answer. He taps on the window. No answer. We hear the sound of a gun being racked. "Who the fuck is there?" yelled out in a loud cajun accent from inside. Jack replies, "It's just us, man. I've got my backpack and it's hot outside, can we come in?" Normally, this would have been enough for me to leave, but normal rode out a long time ago. He tells us to go to the back door and he'll let us in. We walk around the small fence and I can hear someone turning the locks on the door. Slowly the door creeks open but no one is standing there. We walk in and the guy closes the door behind us. I'm in shock and immediately recognize the guy. He is coked out of his mind, has a pistol in one hand, the door in the other, and has no idea who I am. He asks who I am, but I don't reply, Jack intervenes. "This is my friend J. He's a nice guy. Doesn't talk much though. He was just here for the ride."
Jack hands over the bag full supposedly full of pot. Elvis walks us into another room. There's a big screen, a leather couch, and a glass coffee table with a shoe box lid covered with cocaine. Elvis sits down and does a line, offers us some, we both decline, nasty stuff. Elvis pulls the almost kilo of pot out of the bag. He looks at it and inspects it very closely. "This stuff's old and has gone moldy. No wonder you only wanted 800 for all of it. I can't do nothing with this. Nobody will buy it. If you want the pistol, the light, and the ammo, I need shit I can sale. Go back home and get me the other bud." Jack tried his best to convince him otherwise, "Naw man, that white stuff? Man those are THC crystals. I told you I didn't kief this stuff first." I could tell Jack was lying. Elvis put the bud back into the backpack, opened the window, dropped it onto the ground and said, "Get out. Stop wasting my time and come back when you have some decent stuff." We leave.
We're headed back to my place and I lay into him.
"What the FUCK was that about? You bring me along for a drug for gun trade and the drugs aren't even good? Have you lost your fucking mind? He's a coke and weapons dealer. You don't even own a gun, Jack. Why would you even do business with this guy? Don't you know he can just take your shit? You dumb mother-fucker!"
"Man, be cool."
"Be cool?!? Me? I'm on a headfull of acid right now. I know that guy. You know I knew him and you didn't tell me who he was. Why the fuck would you do that? God damnit, just take me home you stupid fuck!"
"Man, be cool."
Jack's phone rings. I can't tell what is being said, but apparently it's Elvis. Jack sums up the conversation for me.
"That was Elvis. He said he recognized you as being Martina's 'stand in boyfriend' while A was off studying. He wanted to know if you wanted any coke... I told him it wasn't your thing."
"No, no I don't want any fucking coke. I want to go home."
"He also said to tell you that Martina is a two bit whore and you shouldn't be upset about her."
Now I was not only pissed off, but confused, frustrated and bordering on enraged.
We get back to my house and I help Jack start to clean off the buds. We are using a solution of 20 parts water to 1 part vinegar to remove the mold from the pot, then we place it all under a cake lid with tangerine peels to "cure" and change the smell. This was not a problem for me because it allowed me to take my stress out on the tangerines, peeling them and compulsively devouring them one after another. After a few hours of being under the cake lid, it worked. The smell was completely different and the pot had "fluffed" up a bit. We returned to Elvis's place to find him full of cocaine. He made the transaction with Jack and then invited me to join him at the casinos:
"So Payne, you a gamblin' man? I'm going down to the casinos, have a quarter ounce of blow to take with me, and would like some company. Do you play roulette?"
Fuck, was this really happening? Did I just get an offer from Satan himself to forget my troubles and play my favorite casino game on a head full of cocaine and LSD. I believe I did. I gladly took him up on his offer, ditched Jack because I was pissed at him, and headed for Tunica.
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