#1
Mostly a drug experience, I hope there's any sort of noticeable improvement since the last time I wrote a short story. The title says it all.

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If you read this, I'm sorry to have wasted your time


It's six days now. Six days and I'll never see the friends I love or the town I despise again. It feels amazing to know that whatever actions you do won't have any reprecussions, the death of regret, I call it. It was ten at night and against all my friends' advice I was tipsy by myself. I decided to quit drinking (for the night) and take a walk to the drug store to get some goodies. I get yelled at by the landlord as I'm walking downstairs for having a cigarette lit in his precious little Taj Mahal. I got to the store, picked out my pistol of choice for the evening and headed to the grocery to get some water. Swallowing 20 pills was a pain in the ass, especially when you have to hide from the wonderful, endearing men dressed in some white arab whatever the hell you call it. For those who have done (i.e. abused) Dramamine before, you'll know what a living hell this was for me. It's like satan decided to land on earth, and he picked no one but you to piss, shit and spit on. Like getting run over by a car, or jumping out of a burning building was the much better choice to begin with. When you realize that the difference between a hallucinogen and a deliriant is the death of hope. If this trip was like taking a tour bus around a new city, the tour guide's comments would be entirely made up of "On your left, you'll notice the children dying in the cars sinking into asphalt" and "On your right, you'll notice that the flashing lights are not in fact paparazzi lined up for your ****ing majesty; but extra-terrestrials that want to harvest your organs with the machetes they're carrying". That was late into the night though, so I'll back up a bit.

If I've implied that I've never done this drug before, then I'm sorry. I don't like talking about it at all, makes me feel like an idiot. Or worse, judged. I'm not addicted or anything, just curious. I want to see how twisted and frightening my mind can get, and boy did I get it tonight. I don't know why my subconscious would want to conjure up a masturbating zombie outside his window, but it did it anyway. That's something that I probably would have never even thought of. The hangover is much worse though, it's like God took a shit on your soul and wiped his ass with your pride. Again though, I'm getting ahead of myself.


They were kicking in now, and with the combined effort of alcohol, making me as tired as the man that was made to walk until his feet bleed, then keep walking. Everything in the neighborhood (or compound, whatever you prefer to call it) looked the same, all small beige buildings that looked like they were drawn by a 6 year old, and put in numerical order by a 12 year old. Really, the only time that '9' should come after '6' is in the sex act. My first mistake was lighting a cigarette: my mouth was as dry as this story, my stomache felt unsettled, the lighter's flame scared the holy brown shit out of me and the smoke coming off the cigarette depressed the hell out of me. I just wanted to pass out right then and there in the middle of the cold road. I wished I had any amps to dissolve some life into me, but unfortunately I didn't. I had to make the trip home all by myself and with the odd, swift-moving shadows at the corner of my eyes (not to be confused with my shadow, that is waving at me as I walk). Each step felt like I was walking into a Burmese tiger pit: My parents made my life so god damn bourgeois that they're practically selling me the drugs and alcohol, but still they're waiting for me at home where I will indefinitely be caught. The thought scared me a little, but I was started by the phasing 6 inch cockroach that's going around me in circles. The auditory hallucinations were great though, I could hear a music festival close to where I was. It sounded like the music is some murky, low quality, atmospheric record that's being played backwards. It radiated "redness" in my mind's eye. I finally find the building and head inside.

The elevator ride took three days and two nights, but of course I wouldn't know if that's exact since the closest thing to sunlight I had was the flickering yellow light directly above my comparable-to-a-syringe head. I looked at my face in the mirror, I was grinning a devilish grin. Reminded me of an Autechre cover I once saw, except while touching my mouth I didn't feel any teeth. My cheeks and eyebrows relaxed as though they had weights attached to them. The reflection was a different me, or the different me was a reflection. I couldn't figure out which was right. I decide to close my eyes and rest my head facing the mirror: Bad, bad, bad idea. My eyes opened to the Autechre album cover-like figure reaching with its snakey tounge to my nose. I panic for a second, but I was literally saved by the bell. The elevator bell. I head out and inside the apartment, get on the computer, play around with my DAW and head to bed.

Oh I wish. I wish so much I could tell you that was the worst of it or that's how it ended, sadly that'd be the biggest lie since the one I told my mom about me being as sober as a Mosque's Imam (like a priest, except browner). I could call what happened next unpleasant. I could call it the worst thing that's happened to anyone. I'd be under-selling it though. The rest of the night was much higher in quality, in terms of "what the **** did I do to myself". I walked in the house and was greeted by two highly suspicious parents wanting to introduce me to a guest in the house. A guest who looked so familiar to my now fully unfunctional head.

The dean of the college I've been thinking of attending.