A Review of 8 Hard Drugs (By Taking Them)
Drugs are the blanket that covers everything. Feeling sad or angry? Take some drugs; it’ll make you feel better. Feeling happy and adventurous? Take some drugs — it’ll make you feel better!
Most of us want to try the harder stuff ‘just once’, but fear the black hole of addiction too much. Here’s a review of eight hard drugs (by taking them) that will either deter you once and for all, or possibly destroy your life forever. See you in the shooting gallery.
“Do you want to call your guy, or do you want me to call my guy? Does your guy have good stuff? How much for a bag? Let’s get three bags; we’ll get a better deal that way. Just don’t tell Matt and Alisha that we’re buying because they’ll want to do it all and never give us any money.”
After a ride through the projects in a fully-loaded SUV with a guy named Squishy, three small bags of white powder are acquired. If you’re with people who don’t have a clue and/or can’t get decent cocaine, it’s a little lumpy — especially when you break it up. That crappy cocaine looks like little wads of chalk spread out in a questionable ‘line’. If you have to take a huge crap after doing one of those damp, lumpy lines, congratulations — you’ve probably just snorted baby laxatives with a sprinkling of cocaine.
The first bump happens and everyone is ready to party. Let’s go here, let’s go there, let’s go any-damn-where. It doesn’t really matter. Spirits are high and so is your stupidly grinning, numb face. Your throat tastes like the bottom of a pool and you’re ready to party. This mood can easily be destroyed if no party is found and everyone winds up in someone’s room, sitting like begging dogs around the guy who’s cutting up lines and complaining that nothing’s going on tonight.
If you do find a good bar or party, you and your fiendly friends are constantly sneaking off to the bathroom for bumps and lines. Everything rules so hard right now, and you have work tomorrow but that’s okay because you’re already stoked for work and are totally going to get that project done even before the deadline and your boss will be impressed and you’ll be thrilled and maybe even get a promotion, not then but eventually, but promotions remind you that you can’t forget to tell your friend about this brand new business idea you had the other day because it’s a f*cking amazing idea and sure to make everyone rich, but before — “oh my God, girl, your apartment is so cool!” — the wallpaper reminds you of this art installation you once saw that really left an impression on you and you can tell that she’s so cool for having that wallpaper, she’s probably a great artist, you guys will really have to hang out and talk about music and go to the museum to see that thing you both love but only after you’re all done talking about Cam’ron, haha he’s so funny I love Cam’ron!!
If you’re the happily babbling idiot, there are probably two other things going on in that room that you may be oblivious to:
1: The angry guy in the corner who has trapped some poor inebriated fools, forcing them to endure his rant on politics or why music today sucks.
2: The silent sufferer who hates you and wishes you would shut up or OD already.
When the end of the night is long gone (it’s 7AM), you’re still wide awake. Might as well do the last bumps and then split the bag open, licking the insides like a starving child. Coming down feels like a slow death is descending; you’re tired but can’t sleep. You close your eyes and they open back up on their own. Your body aches, exhausted as if you ran a marathon, but your gallavanting mind is still rolling around in the snow.
If it’s a weekend, you have a restless sleep for a few hours (unless you do this stuff all the time, in which case you sleep until 8PM and then repeat the whole ordeal). On a weekday, you might just shower, skip GO and travel directly to work — do not collect sleep at all. Expect to nod out at your desk after lunch.
Are mushrooms really a hard drug? Maybe when you’re fully clothed, screaming in the bath tub and trying to turn on both the hot and cold waters at full force, mushrooms are a hard drug.
But that’s not you. You know how to avoid — or at least how to try and avoid — having an awful trip. You keep a few trip rules:
- Realize that you’re always connected to reality in some way. Your illusions are just that — illusions. Never confuse dancing lights and shadow animals for real things. Remember that you’re tripping while you’re tripping.
- Don’t go into the darkness. If something triggers a negative reaction in you and begins pulling you into a dark place, get up and do something else. Talk to your friends about it, or talk to them about anything. Go into another room. Do something to change it up instead of letting yourself get sucked into what could potentially turn into a bad trip.
- Don’t lose your shit; playing in to any negative feeling will only amplify it.
- Avoid what makes you uncomfortable. Don’t like being outside while tripping? Don’t go outside.
Now that you’ve got that down, eat as many damn mushrooms as you want. Eat ‘em in the park if you’re comfortable enough. Have a chat with the police if you can, because they really want to know what you’re doing in the park at 2AM and why all those other kids jetted off in the other direction.
You rent a cabin in the woods with your ex-boyfriend. This is the perfect time for tripping, you think. You, him, and your dog venture up there to the middle of nowhere. There’s a lake and a hot tub; what else could you want?
A bag of mushrooms later and you’re crawling around the deck at dusk, laughing hysterically at nothing. You’re being pretty loud, he tells you, but you could care less. You scream that out into the night, the neighbors only yards away on either side.
An hour later and you’re hiding behind walls in the house, playing a creepy version of hide-and-seek. “Did we take mushrooms?” You keep asking. You try to get into the hot tub but can’t figure out the incredibly simple four-button console. Whatever to that, and whatever to everything else. Sex is nonsense; what are these appendages? They’re extremely funny to look at… but they’re beginning to make you uncomfortable as well, mostly because you’re so confused about sex and what it really is and why people do it.
Suddenly, a wild sound appears. Your pit bull goes jetting off into the night, barking and growling after some lady’s voice. You run as fast as you can to catch her before she mauls some poor child, the garden lights blurring into an outer space abyss of blackness and tiny stars. Are you really in outer space right now? Did you just run off the planet and into outer space? You hope not; the hot tub was kind of nice, even lukewarm.
Oh, it’s just some lady from next door, asking you if you could please move your car to make more room for hers.
“I’m only here for the weekend!” You blurt out, “Sorry! I’ll be gone in a few days. I’m renting the cabin here! I rented it! But only for the weekend.”
She stares at you awkwardly and says “Oh, okay,” and repeats her request. Sure, you tell her, of course you can move your car (but in your head, all you can think is “?????????”). Before she walks away, she says “Your dog really scared me” and you reply, “Haha, I bet she did!” with a giant grin on your face, immediately realizing how insensitive you sound.
You feel like a jerk but are laughing about it whilst trying to maneuver your vehicle into a smaller spot. You left the door open but somehow manage. Now you really know you’re tripping. You want to take the boat out. You want to go fishing at night. Your energy will actually attract the fish and you’ll be able to catch so many. They will die for you before you even kill them, in love with you, they’re in love with you, you’re in love with everything.
An hour and a lot of discouragement later, you’ve opted to sit by the water instead. Everything is beautiful and you understand all the things you already know you can really never understand; things are just the way they are and can be described, in your head, by a non-language language that remains somewhat intangible the whole time — an epiphany that is slightly out of touch lingers somewhere in your mind like something you’re trying to remember but can’t. It’s right on the tip of your tongue. You’ll never catch it, but being this close is satisfying enough for now.
As you come down, you smoke weed until you can’t feel your throat.
You’re 19 and have left the big city to take E in the woods with your irresponsible, jobless boyfriend. He lives with his parents up there in the forests of upstate NY, and you pick him up because he doesn’t have a license or car. You each pop one pill and visit his friend, whose parents are inexplicably home. You nervously talk to them as a strange anxiety creeps up your back and you feel your pupils slowly dilating.
As soon as you leave, the anxiety changes from ‘Oh sh*t I hope they don’t know I’m on drugs right now’ to a generally strange body high. Everything is starting to feel really interesting — you’re floating, you’re very grounded with this super-secure ground beneath your feet, you’re a paper cutout somewhat separated from everything else in the world, you’re touching everything. Five hours pass, of which no memories are made inside your brain. Attempt sex and fail; whoever says sex is amazing on ecstasy is a fantasizer and not a doer.
You realize that you shouldn’t be driving around Westchester in the snow, and park your car between your boyfriend’s mother’s house and the neighboring driveway. You really, really have to pee but don’t want to go inside and get seen by the mother, who already has a perfect view of you creepily loitering in her driveway with your headlights on. You pee in a Vitamin Water bottle instead, and remember the rumor you once heard about drinking your own pee while on ecstasy to get a more intense high. You don’t think it’s true but do it anyway, making a mental note of the new low your life has just hit, here in the driveway, a bottle of Vitamin Water filled with pee pressed to your lips. You force a few sips down and think of bitter vegetable oil. And then you laugh. Your boyfriend says something you disagree with, but you nod and smile anyway. Who cares? Life is stupid. You love that life is stupid. Nothing is stupid.
This comes and goes in waves until you begin feeling normal for extended periods of time, looking forward to the tiny spikes in sensory sensitivity until they ebb away for good.
Molly, like Ecstasy, is MDMA — but in pure form. No cocaine, baby laxative, meth, old people ashes, or whatever else gets mixed into Ecstasy. Molly is (hopefully) just the real, bare bones happy powder you want.
So your friend gives you a little capsule of white powder. It’s one of those plastic-looking oblong pills you can pull apart and put back together. You escape into the club’s bathroom (with said friend) at some weird electronic show and start to empty half a pill on your palm. Outside the door is a squat, dumpy woman who has mysteriously been employed to hand out paper towels to those perfectly capable of grabbing their own, and then expect/demand tips. She notices that you’re standing in the stall with someone else and tries to rip the door open, yelling that “she knows what you’re doing in there” while holding one nostril shut (she’s not even right; you’re eating it) and demanding $20 as hush money. You pull the door shut and uncomfortably continue your ‘scientific experiment’.
Back in the club, your friend claims to be ‘tripping balls’, but you can’t feel anything. Just a nasty chemical taste that’s worse than the worst cocaine you’ve ever done. The kid next to you is sleeping, and your friend is rolling around with a plastic disco ball and a witchy looking British girl on the dance floor.
Forty minutes later, the awkwardness melts away and is replaced by a warm, fuzzy “haha, hooray” feeling of generosity and happiness. You dance a little, but get bored of having no one interesting to talk to and decide to leave. Before exiting, you return to the bathroom and give the dumpy little troll a $10 bill and a hug, saying something nice that she immediately writes off as drug-induced nonsense. She hugs you back anyway.
You leave the club with an extra pill and travel to your boyfriend’s house (different boyfriend — you’re 24 and still in the game), where you share the rest of the drug. You’re now out of your mind on what your friend says was ‘a lot of doses’, but you think she’s full of shit. What made her act crazy had no effect on you, and now you’ve taken triple the amount and still feel relatively “fine”. Your boyfriend eats half a pill and, forty minutes later, says that the feeling is a little speedy and uncomfortable. You don’t care about that or much of anything else. All you know is that everything is fine, everything’s going to be fine, and dancing is a lot of fun. In the bathroom, you look in the mirror and exhale slowly a number of times, overwhelmed with how great everything looks and feels and just is, maaaan.
An Australian girl in your circle of ‘party friends’ (come on, most of us have those) just acquired a vial of LSD and is excited to share with everyone. You figure that you should probably stop dropping acid every few weeks but find this scenario hard to resist. After a night at a bunch of swanky, snotty clubs that play crappy music and are filled with ugly rich men, you designated-drive everyone back to your place. She’s using the eyedropper to pump your friend’s eye full of acid and you verbalize your concerns about him taking the acid in that manner. He says something accentuated with a long ‘duuuude’, so you figure he knows what he’s doing. You ask for a drop but she refuses; you’re driving, you idiot!
Back at the house, she places a few drops on your tongue. You light candles and pull out some crystals while she accidentally spills way too much LSD into some skinny boy’s eye. He’s visibly nervous, but you’re already beginning to trip and don’t really care. You’re laughing about something else. A girl in goth makeup picks up the crystals, spinning the ones attached to a tiny, delicate chain. She tells some of the kids that crystals have a magnetic energy, and begins to ‘harness’ it — “I can feel it!” they say. You’re tripping pretty hard now, but you still think it’s bullshit. You grab your favorite crystal and wander out to the backyard.
Christmas lights hang off a tree. You wander over to it and press your face up to the lights, real close, like some Blair Witch ghost has possessed you and told you to stand in the corner. You can see the veins of leaves through the tiny lights and it amazes you. Whatever properties crystals have that we don’t understand, you think, is not being harnessed in your kitchen by a couple of goth junkies. You reconsider that thought. Maybe it is. Maybe those are the perfect people to harness the energy of crystals. What do you know about anything, really?
The skinny eyeful kid wanders into the backyard and immediately eats shit, faceplanting on the pavement of your patio. Cigarette-smokers are around him, sitting in lounge chairs and saying “dude.” He gets up and screams, ripping a painting from the wall of your house as he runs outside. Your closest friend in the group raises his eyebrows and sighs before reluctantly rising to pursue him. He comes back an hour later with the kid’s clothing and one of his shoes, shrugging and saying that he couldn’t catch up to him.
As morning blooms, you sit on the balcony with all the people you’ve allowed to follow you home in the holy name of LSD. Your kitchen is trashed, the sheets are falling off your bed, and there are beer cans everywhere. It’s starting to feel like a crack house. The Australian girl lies upside down, her hairy legs in the air, lipstick smeared on her face, a cockeyed look in her eye. “Your dog feels like curtains!” she exclaims. You have to be somewhere in four hours and you’re still tripping. Your backyard is beautiful but all of these people begin to appear very ugly; you can see every flaw, every yellow tooth, and you desperately need them to leave so you can clean all of this shit up. You feel a little guilty about telling them to go, but a tripping person needs what a tripping person needs. They leave and a great weight is lifted; all is right in your little hovel once again.
You don’t remember. That pretty much sums it up. Your memory is sucked into the Xan-hole, the black abyss of downers that applies to most Benzos and Opiates in pill form. You’ve only retained two things from your encounter with Oxy:
- A snapshot memory of your boyfriend’s brother’s girlfriend standing by the staircase in a tank top, rattling off the list of pills she just took and looking at you like she wants to die.
- Sitting next to a bookshelf.
- You loved it and want more.
Between the lack of memory and the price-per-pill, you decide that once was enough and move on to greener (see: easier and cheaper) pastures.
Anyone who says Xanax isn’t a hard drug has never been addicted to Xanax.
The first time you decide to try it, your crappy boyfriend’s brother and his friends are crushing up pills on a brown card table somewhere in the Hamptons. It’s not even the nice part of the Hamptons, but a ghetto little area right outside of it where all the lowly rich-people-servants (restaurant employees, grass cutters, etc) are banished to live. The curtains are blankets. Sure, you say, whatever, you’ll try it.
You snort half a 2mg bar and wait for something to happen, but it just burns. You say it burns. You say it burns again. You say it burns about four more times, because it really burns, like, a lot. But suddenly, in your painfully congested state on the brown couch by the brown foldout card table, you cease to care about the burn. You cease to care about anything. You look up and the world is full of matte objects, things and people you simply are not effected by. So things are okay.
You stand and bend to tie your shoes, but fall over. What better time than now to get in the car and drive to the beach? It’s night time, though, and the beach is cold. You head to your boyfriend’s grandparents’ home instead, crashing your car into a giant road cone on the way. You exit and stumble down the road to grab your side-view mirror, sloppily duct taping the shattered piece of glass back in place.
Back at the house, you lie in the bushes and marvel at how comfortable they are. The sky is beautiful. Sex is great, but you both come close to passing out during the act and decide to just hang out instead. Wouldn’t want old people to find your genitals lying in their lawn at 7AM. Back inside, you sleep the best sleep you’ve ever slept.
Three years later, your giant metal milk-can is emptied of thousands of dollars in change and you never want to eat Chinese food again. Giant holes in your memory remind you why it’s called a memory eraser, quite literally, and you know people who still can’t get away from the stuff.
Mixture of Morphine, Quaaludes, Xanax, Alcohol
You don’t quite remember, but you still sometimes marvel at how you managed to survive.
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