LUCY IN THE SKY WITH DEMONS

April 23, 2007

Now that the statute of limitations has lifted, I believe I can safely regale you all with a true tale of harrowing anticlimactic anti-wonder.

The following was taken from an old journal, wherein I was writing about my first LSD experience (or non-experience--since it was apparently gank shit), as it happened (or didn't, as such). I took three (or so) tabs and got near-jackshit, but found a way to write about it anyway, as it all unfolded...or failed to, in that instance. Of note, this was the first appearance of my "warm, buttered assholes" fiat.

My chickenscratch was almost undecipherable (and written in faded-out pencil, no less!)--I can't believe I managed to transcribe this at all. Enjoy.


ca. 2001

I wish I could call The Professor, my old Dope Mentor. But it's late, and his extended family would likely saw his head clean off for receiving phone calls this late--and The Prof would be no good to anyone without a head. He would be too short.

Tonight, I received a gift--"presents of mind" if you will...I certainly did. Tonight, I'm waiting on God or Godot...waiting for the Saviour or the Saucer Men--waiting on SOMETHING. Good acid is, allegedly, the gift that keeps on giving, like incest and syphilis. I have yet to discover whether this is "good" acid, but it is likely to continue giving, nonetheless; I have to work tomorrow, and I took way more than I was told to. Sadly, I have fallen prey to the old "It's not working yet...it must be weak...I'll just take some more!" folly, as I've done with other things in the past... Whoops.

Oh well. So far, I am largely unimpressed. I am lounging on the sofa in a colorful Death Metal t-shirt and a kilt, listening to King Crimson's Red on repeat, and staring at the large, menacing, skeletal luna moth model we have hanging from the ceiling. The image of it all is surreal enough without the drugs. That's part of the problem--I'm fucked up enough without the drugs. Thus, when I do them, I'm only disappointed. I expect too much. But what do people really expect when they drop acid? To be much like I am in my natural state, I gather. I suppose I expect to "transcend" at some point--"cross the Rubicon" and all that. But really, where do I go from here?

Oh yeah...Hell.

Case in point: The other day, I asked a coworker a typical question: If someone were to hand you a bowl of hot buttered assholes, would you put salt on them? No, really...would you? The question, as posed, is trickier than it seems. I suppose it would be like musky, puckered tortellini. And I asked this question sober, and earnestly. It was not unusual by my standards, not atypical at all. So again, I ask you, where the fuck do I go from here?

Oh yeah, to work--early tomorrow afternoon. And Hell.

Perhaps I should write a piece for the new book about people tweaking about restlessly in a room, waiting for their acid to kick in. It could be cute. I wonder how many great things have been accomplished in this world while people were waiting for their acid to hit. I imagine most of them turned out to be children's shows.

Dear God, that luna moth is creepy.

I'd love to note in this entry about how I/we obtained this shit--it's actually pretty funny, but alas I cannot. I can, however, report this much of the story, which is humorous enough in its own right: I ate a lot things I probably shouldn't have (certainly nothing new for me, I suppose, given my relationship history). A friend of mine, whom we shall call "The Doctor," said that he was leaving it for me at work. He said that it went straight from the dropper onto a piece of paper, and that I'm supposed to eat the paper. It would be in my mailbox, but never specified what sort of paper it was. Well, of all days to get lots of fucking memos...you get the idea. I have never gotten so many notes, post-its, and announcements in my entire life as I have on this forsaken day. After work, the good Doctor finds me in the parking lot and says, "Oh, hey man--sorry I didn't get to your mailbox--here it is!"

Dear God, am I bored. Oh but for a toaster to sprout legs and crawl across the floor. Oh but for a glimpse of the cats chanting Satanic litanies, sacrificing a cricket to Yog-Sothoth. Oh but for Yog-Sothoth to be playing golf with Barney Rubble. Oh but for SOMETHING.

Dear God, dear God, dear God...sincerely, bored in StL.


PS DAMN FUCKING MOTH!!!!!!!!!

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