Ego Tripping at the Gates of Hell
This post contains lethal doses of sarcasm if read irresponsibly.
Three tabs of acid in and I can see the essence of everyone’s souls around me; the vibrant friends I love and cherish are beaming a strong golden aura, the thots who jacked the aux chord to play the 10-minute version of “All too Well” a dull grey. Roughly an hour or so into this—who even knows what time is anymore—a friend tells me each tab I ingested was a triple stack. I wish he disclosed this information to me at some point before I flung back six shots of Jack on a whim.
This world, my world, is melting. It’s a rotten place, and I finally see that. The sultry air is suffocating my lungs, or maybe it’s some unidentified COVID variant. I swear I can detect the individual sneeze particles floating and sinking around me, musty exhales ripple through the atmosphere, too. We are a disgusting species.
I retreat to the bathroom for some much-needed privacy, to soothe myself of this dreaded self-consciousness. I look in the mirror and see only horror.
Damn, is my nose really that big?
Yes, 1973 was fun.
Legit, I would like to read Substack writers talking about their tripping experiences.