Baby's First Acid Trip
Posted: Posted June 6th by poptart!
Despite using any drugs that come my way, I've never tried LSD. Psychedelics have never interested me. I've always noticed overlap between the people who are into acid and the people who are into horoscopes. If I try acid, I thought, I'll turn into a fucking hippie, the worst of all fates. Or, maybe I never tried it because I never came across it, living in opiate-ridden small Ohio towns.
Over the past weekend, I was getting drunk at Camp Anarchy, a three-day punk festival held — for some reason — in the middle of podunk Ohio. The sun started to set, and after a long day of drinking craft brews, my friends and I found ourselves standing between two rows of Porta-Johns, talking to two beautiful girls from California.
Mid-conversation, this shirtless guy came up to me and asked me to hold something. A Gatorade cap full of drugs. A few pills and a few tabs. "Are you gonna share with me?" I asked him, and he ripped me off a tab. I put it in my mouth and then asked, "What was that?"
"Acid," he said over his shoulder as he walked away. At that moment, between the shitters and next to two beautiful ladies, I realized I was about to have a great time. "Holy shit, I just took acid," I said to no one in particular. The California Girl I had been talking to let out a groan — "Why couldn't I score like that? You lucky bastard!" — while one of my friends, who was already hammered drunk, started to freak out.
"How could you do that? Take drugs from a stranger? That's illegal!"
I told him to stop being such a cop. One of the California girls positioned herself between us and distracted my plastered pal, taking him by the arm and walking him away. The other grabbed me by the shoulders and looked me deep in the eyes. "You're going to have a blast," she said, "Don't let him ruin your trip."
We kept talking, eventually moving away from the Porta-Johns to avoid having drunk punks weaving through us and interrupting us. At this point, Bad Religion was playing, and I was starting to feel a little funky. "Everything feels so soft," I observed as I was hugging the California Girl — and it didn't have anything to do with how her titties were pressed up against me; everything truly was soft.
"Let's go shopping," she said. She took me by the hand — her hand was the softest hand I've ever felt in my life — and we weaved through the crowd, past the fat guy having people staple money to his body, past the portly man with a triple mohawk, past the girl wearing nothing but short shorts and pasties. We walked through the booths of vendors. Eventually, we came to the place where I would find the true love of my life: a furby. There, on a set of shelves, rested a row of colorful furbies, their eyes lighting up in the dark.
"Hey, they're talking to me," I said. The California Girl handed me one and told me to feel it. As I stroked its fur, I felt a deep emotional connection between me and the animatronic gremlin. I felt bad for the other furbies, but this was my furby. It had picked me, and I picked it. As I raved on and on about how soft its fur was, the vendor came up and told me that I could tickle it, too. I wiggled my finger in its stomach, and it let out a giggle. "Hoooooly shiiiiiit."
"They're eighty bucks if you want one," the vendor said.
I was high on acid, but I wasn't stupid, so I put it back and went back to stroking the California Girl's arm. At some point, another friend texted me. It blew my mind.
"What's going on?" he asked.
"Dude I'm on acid," I said. "How did you know to text me?"
We have a psychic connection, I thought. He knew I was on acid and knew to text me.
The night wore on. I got the Cali Girl's number, and we parted ways. My friends and I continued drinking beer and moshing. Eventually, NOFX finished their set, and we walked out to the parking lot and started our drive home. From the back seat of the car, my friend in the passenger seat was washed in a bright purple light. I'm not sure if the light was real or not.
After a stop at Waffle House — I got the two-egg breakfast — we stopped at Taco Bell — I got the shredded chicken burrito — and then made our way back to my friend's apartment, where I fell asleep.
In the morning, the alcohol had worn off, but the acid continued to linger. I said my goodbyes to my friends and drove home. At this point, I was in a bit of a pickle. I was on the tail end of my trip, according to Google, but I had to work in about three hours. I decided walking would help it wear off. I went around the block, smoking cigarettes, enjoying a distinct floating sensation. Despite being in the middle of a suburb, I felt a strong connection to nature. The grass was greener, fluffier, grassier. I wanted to sit down and pet it, but I had enough sense to know how strange that would look to my neighbors.
Eventually, the effects wore off. My trip wasn't life-changing; I didn't have any profound realizations about the universe, but it was a blast, and as far as I know, I'm still not a stupid hippie. Still, I've felt a strange happiness ever since. The grass outside still looks greener, and life feels a little bit brighter.
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