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This is a question Drugs

Tell us your pharmaceutically-influenced anecdotes, legal or otherwise. We promise not to dob you in to The Man.

Thanks to sanityclause for the suggestion

(, Thu 16 Sep 2010, 13:30)
Pages: Latest, 12, 11, 10, 9, 8, 7, ... 1

This question is now closed.

Not funny.
Apologies for length in advance.

This is not a mad crazy LOLWTFDRUGS story, merely the tale of a youngun who did some silly things and lived to regret it.

Let me begin by saying that I was not the typical South African youngster. Learning to read at age 3 and going to a "special" school for sub A (reception/year 1/first year of school) for having "learning difficulties" tends to pigeonhole a person, regardless of intention. Though I must say, I'm not completely absolved of blame, developing a massive victim complex when I was still in a cot. Looking back, it does not seem completely normal to lie in a metal cage festooned with colourful teddies and cutouts of Winnie-the_pooh whispering "everybody hates me" to myself. Yet this is the first thing I can remember from my childhood.

Primary school passed in a blur. I was convinced that I was a pariah amongst my classmates, and acted accordingly. This probably did not do my adolescent self any favours - kids remember things, guys, no matter what child psychologists say. Throughout my middle-and-high school career, I was convinced that I was looked upon as a freak, a weirdo, perhaps even someone evil and otherworldly. It was at about this time that I started reading HP Lovecraft and Edgar Allen Poe, wishing that like Fortunato, I could be sealed off with nothing but darkness and a cask of strong, tasty alcohol to keep me company.

See, this is where my story becomes interesting. If you think that this is nothing more than a badly-punctuated teenage rant, allow me to adjust your viewpoint. By the age of ten, I was regularly drinking heavily from the contents of my parents' liquor cabinet, seeking some kind of remedy to dull the edges of my own neuroses. Never mind that these were created out of whole cloth within the darkest reaches of my mind (can young minds have dark corners? I'm not entirely sure), I thought I had a problem and took steps to remedy it. It was amazing how many times I was off sick with "a cold" or "the flu". Strange that my parents did not pick up on this... the people I whom I was convinced were monsters ever since the age of 4, when I read "Where The Wild Things Are".

By the time I got to grade 10 (16 years old) I was already an accomplished drinker. Vodka? Pssh - easy. Brandy? We PERFECTED the stuff... if you're British, find a bottle of KWV or Van Rijn 10 year old, tell me how smooth and complex they are. Nothing to it. So when I went to my first house party, at age 16, people marveled at the amount I could drink. When my father picked me up (in his BMW 325 - we were and still are rather well off, this is not a tale of poverty), he commented that I smelled of alcohol. I brushed it off and got on with my life.

This continued until I was 17, at which point things got slightly out of hand, to the point I was bumming lifts home off older mates to avoid being flat-out fucked in front of my parents. On one of these occasions, I stumbled down the road to the home of my friend S. S and I had been friends of a certain kind for a long time - she was forever single, and we experimented a lot with sex and usual teenage bullshit. She, however, was very into smoking and weed, starting both when she was 14 - the same time we started experimenting.

Anyway. So I managed to walk the 800 meters to her house, to find her and all her mates smoking weed. Being drunk, I took a massive drag on what turned out to be pure chronic (serious stuff). Pulled a massive whitey and passed out on her floor. Vowed never to do it again... famous last words.

Over the course of the next two years, I took up smoking with a vengeance. 20 Marlboro Lights and about 3 grams of weed a day got me through matric, somehow, with three distinctions. Can't remember half of it, so don't ask how it happened. A year spent living in a commune in Israel didn't help much either.

Last year, I started chef training. There, I met a girl named K. Queer as a hat full of rainbows, she nevertheless became my friend. Bad Idea. K was seriously in love with coke. She got me involved, and from then on it was all systems WHOOOOOSH, line or 2 in the morning, couple of beers and a spliff at lunch and another line or 2 to come down... don't ask how that worked.

I lost many people's trust, I almost lost my family (almost got kicked out of the house many times, but that's a story for another time) and all my so-called "friends" fucked off at high speed as soon as they noticed how fucked I was. Thankfully, I never got too out of control - never arrested, never convicted of any crime.

In January of this year, K and I decided to drink a case of Savanna (crap cider) and do about a R1000 (about #100)'s worth of coke. The last thing I remember is going to sleep, and waking up naked in her bed, with her dealer sleeping on the floor. In a strange clear moment, I got in my car, drove off, phoned a series of people (K her dealer, my dealer and his friend) and told them all to fuck off. This sounds impossible, I know, but it actually happened. I was fucking lucky to get off scot free - there were so many times that I could have killed myself and people around me.

I'm by no means clean now - I still smoke way too much and drink enough for five people. However, six years of meditative therapy has given me a new perspective:

Still with me? OK, cool. Read on.

It's like this: Whatever happened, I did to myself. NO one else is to blame, neither my parents nor those people I went to high school with whom I thought were gunning for me. My life is in my hands, and any drug-or-booze-related fuckups are my own problem.

Reading B3ta helped too - it's really nice to know that people don't always see the negative side of what could be a terrible situation. So thanks, guys. You helped me see the lighter side of things.

I'm getting on my feet now. Four years of culinary training helped me land a job as sous-chef at a fantastic restaurant in Cape Town, where I'm earning enough to achieve independence and move into my own place, away from my parents. On October first, four of us are moving into a beautiful house in Plumstead, in the south of Cape Town. This is a new deal for me... no more coke, no more weed and no more fucking people around.

Apologies for length. This came as a surprise for me too, I didn't expect to contribute to this QOTW at all - for some reason, I felt this had to be said.

Dan X
(, Tue 21 Sep 2010, 0:27, 10 replies)
As I was walking home today...
I spotted a car on the side of the road. Walked past it almost without incident when I noticed something stuck in one of the rear windows. Upon closer inspection, it turned out to be a for sale sign...

...Which identified the car as a 2001 Honda Accord.

So, being a long-time mostly-lurker of these boards, I giggled a bit and kept reading, until I got to the bottom, where the seller put his contact information.

The e-mail address was, I shit you not, [email protected].

I burst into laughter on the spot, getting several funny looks from passersby. I don't get it. I live in freaking Canada! I don't even know anyone else who knows about this place, and it's not like I live in a huge city or anything...

I can only come to the conclusion that someone in my town is b3tatrapping.
(, Tue 21 Sep 2010, 0:26, 14 replies)
I've been caning the paracetamol suspension
I think I may be a Calpoholic!
(, Tue 21 Sep 2010, 0:07, Reply)
"The only drug problem is scoring real good drugs"
(, Mon 20 Sep 2010, 23:41, Reply)
full addiction
Back when I was a young lad I'd heard much talk about this. Being the youngest of 2 boys meant a lot of information was passed down for me to relay to my friends with complete abandonment of what the original story was, just me retelling such tales to sound cool in front of my friends. Yeah, I admit it! And to anyone with older siblings I'm sure you'd understand and agree - you don't get the full facts but become the expert in certain fields in front of your friends.

But, curiousity outgrew me, and I finally had the chance to experiment myself. When I had it in my hands I felt harder than ever, a real coming of age 'aren't I the big man' sort of thing. The feelings were amazing and I relished every minute of it. Back and forth, round and round, my head was swimming and I was in absolute paradise. Even the afterglow of the initial peak of the high was warm and fuzzy, something I had never experienced before and don't think even in times since has been as good.

From then on, I was hooked. It couldn't get enough, and spent far too much time 'chasing the dragon' as I suppose one would call it - trying to find that amazing first time buzz. Sometimes it would feel almost as good, sometimes better, but never enough. It was all I thought about - I could still function and wasn't a complete wreck, but as soon as I got home from school I'd be on it again. Sometimes even at school, sometimes even in public in broad daylight (maybe with a little bit of shelter, I wasn't stupid enough to get caught). I became the typical wanker who almost let it consume his everything. I think I covered it up well in public, but there were certain times when questions were raised - never directly to me, but I knew damn well people were talking about it and what harm I could be doing to myself.

Some adults would mention it to me, taking the 'buddy buddy' routine and saying they'd tried it when they were young too and just don't let it ruin me, some said it was 'evil' and should be washed from my thoughts, but I enjoyed the buzz too much and by now was in far too deep.

Don't get me wrong you hear tales of complete addicts but I was never one of them. I was more into it than a lot of people, I know this now, but as I say I didn't let it ruin my life like some of the stories I've read on this qotw about people having one puff on a joint and the next day dying with a needle in their arm (not that I exaggerate).

As I grew older I was still addicted, but it subsided more and more and I went from 'hitting the pipe' a good couple of times a day to no more than once a day, and even now it's still fairly regularly. I was also single throughout most of my teens, whether it was because of my addiction, or my addiction increased because of it I don't know, but it didn't help. I dated a girl when I was 19 who didn't mind, she said she did it too sometimes (she was older) but I fell head over heels in love with her, and I didn't feel the need as much. I'm trying to figure out how to express why but I don't know the right words, I just didn't need it anymore. I'm sure those who have been that deeply in love will understand where I'm coming from. Still, things were never going to last with her, we both knew that which only served to make it more beautiful, and after we broke up I was back fallen off the wagon again. Girlfriends since have either thought it was a disgusting habit and I'd have to indulge myself far away from them, or sometimes I'd find that special girl who'd understand, even maybe try it themselves and we'd do it together, feeling a connection and intimacy like no other.

I'm 24 now and single again. These days I only crack one off every 2 days or so.
(, Mon 20 Sep 2010, 22:49, 7 replies)
We once traded a Hippy for several bottles of wine...
to a guy who claimed to be a poet.

This is a true story.
(, Mon 20 Sep 2010, 21:10, 6 replies)
actually i have a better story. No one has taken more weed than in this story
For about seven or eight years running, I grew marijuana in my dad's backyard in suburban australia. One year I had 8 plants, big christmas trees, when someone, most likely the teenage shit next door, must have jumped the fence and cut of all the best buds, like removing the christmas baubles. Depressed, I uprooted the lot, and wizzed it to a flour in my dad's food processor. I reckon I had a full compressed bucket load. Using a half pot/half flour, I made a big batch of muffins. My brother and I decided to go to the pub while waiting for them to cool. when we came back the dog, a big springer spaniel, had got up on the bench and managed to eat the lot. He followed us upstairs, layed down on his side on the carpet, and slept for about 40 hours, making the occasional dog whimper. When he eventually woke, and we were starting to contemplate the vet, he seemed fine.
(, Mon 20 Sep 2010, 20:49, Reply)
I once lived for six months in Amsterdam
a bit of a cliche right of the bat. Anyway, soon after I arrived I bought some acid of a french guy on the street. I dropped the lot the next morning, and it turned out to be quite strong. I had forgotten I'd agreed to go on a tourist bus ride that day. I wouldn't recommend trying on clogs, looking at cheeses, and wandering around on dykes with a bunch of strangers with a head full of strong LSD. Especially the clogs
(, Mon 20 Sep 2010, 20:36, 2 replies)
I done loldrugs once and it was lol
I experimented and ended up becoming heavily into weed from the age of 14 back when a TEENTH cost £7 and an EIGHTH was £14 - then went to drama schoool and tried to be an actor

being a ridiculously handsome straight 16 year old I found myself entertained by many older directors who in all likeliness, were it not for my resistance would have bummed me RIGID. (maybe my resistance made them want it more)
Also I found myself moving in certain london circles involving after show parties/ theatre companies where basically young men and women found all manner of illegal substances and alcohol literally SHOVED in their faces by the older arty crowd and all manner of sexy time went on. I loved it because the women were hot, easy and willing and usually older than me.

Wht had been a casual flirtation soon turned into a LOVE of cocaine (which was free at these kinds of things usually and if bought shared willingly) which of course lead on to experimentation with all other things and there isn't a drug I didn't try at some point. I also suffered crippling panic attacks occasionally and HUGE memory loss and often woke up in strange places/areas/beds

I believe I was in some way sexually assaulted at some point (NOT BUMMED MIND) and my father (somebody that works still to this day with drug addicts etc...) found me passed out in the bath (empty with the shower on), white as a sheet, shaking like a leaf.

He put me to bed and I slept for 3 days

The next thing I know my grandparents had sent me off to maidstone to "be with the monks" at great expense (lots of money even in those days) where I learnt painting, pottery, casking and gardening, a lovely time.

With the things i learnt there combined with regula NA meetings, great help from my sponsors I can happily say I celebrated 10 years clean in March this year, at 26 years old. Unfortunatley I don't get the 10 years Narcotics Anonymous keyring as I managed to maintain a steady drink problem that somehow hasn't affected my life, i also travelled and lived abroad from 17 years old as to keep life interesting and avoid temptation.

Got it all out the way early,

this may not be LOLFUNNY or made up but it's my story and something I'm proud of.
I always try to be there for anyone with a bit of a problem and hate the way that cocaine is considered so fucking HIP and COOL and if the idiots that shove that shit up their hooterws every weekend knew the awful way it came about (colombian farmers having families kidnapped so they grow coca etc...) they probably wouldn't bother.

still would LOVE a line and half a spliff right now though :(
(, Mon 20 Sep 2010, 20:12, 13 replies)
the blue people are coming!
i used to love smoking weed, but it made me ridiculously paranoid. i also love zombie films.

one night, me and my mate debbie decided to get smashed. my parents had had a party the night before and, as i always did at such events, i'd grabbed an empty coke bottle and filled it with several different kinds of booze to create something i like to call "shit mix". now, this stuff was potent enough to get us rather off our chops on its own, but debbie also had a few joints on her as well. as my parents were at home, we decided to take our little party to the field behind the house, where there was a little hill we liked to sit on.
halfway up the hill, we got stuck in to our shit mix and smoked a joint or two. within about half an hour, the paranoia started to kick in big time. "debbie," i said, "let's sit on top of the hill." "why?" she asked. "i just want to sit on the hill. i really don't feel safe here, please let's just sit on top of the hill."
debbie didn't want to move. "i'm comfy here," she said, "i can't be arsed moving."
i was getting desperate now. i suffer from mild agoraphobia, which wasn't helping matters. "please," i begged her, "let's just go and sit on top of the hill"
"i'm not moving unless you give me a decent reason," she said.
panicked, i turned to her and blurted out "we have to move, the blue people are coming and we can't see them from here!" yes, i was in the middle of a field, being paranoid about an attack by zombies. serves me right for watching dawn of the dead earlier that night.
debbie almost laughed her arse off at me, but at least she agreed to move to the top of the hill. i felt much safer up there.

bitch has never let me forget it, though.
(, Mon 20 Sep 2010, 18:35, 6 replies)
Responsible Drug use
Many years ago when I was just 16, drugs were everywhere, cheap, plentiful, and still sort of novelty items. I of course tried as many as I could as often as I could and soon found out about the joys of poly-drug use.

I wasn't completely stupid though. I sort of believed the warnings about drugs killing you and doing worse things (these were surprisingly true as some of my friends found out later on) but I still wanted to experience the good times my friends promised. Therefore I went to the adult section of the local public library and borrowed (stole) their copy of the Physicians Desk Reference (PDR). In the pre-internet days this was the only source of medical information on the effects and side effects of various drugs and what to expect when ingesting multiple drugs (usually limited to just two drugs at a time).

It was a big help in keeping me alive at times as I was very serious about updating my PDR's as the library bought new editions and researching each new drug as it became available. I also did a lot of field testing to insure the drugs actually provided the promised effects. I also was a reference source to many of the people I knew and usually received a lot of free samples in return for passing on my knowledge.

I got bored with all of the drugs after a few years and went on to other pursuits but I can possibly thank my early experiences for pushing me into the field of science ultimately getting a couple of graduate degrees in the geosciences and working in this field for the past close to 30 years.
(, Mon 20 Sep 2010, 17:43, Reply)
If it didn't mean what it did
it would be fucking beautiful, and I would welcome the sensation with open arms.

Apologies for length & trippiness. I'll bring you down soon enough.

It's like deja vu taken to its highest extreme - the sensation that one thing is another is everything else. It starts with a normal deja vu 'kick', the one you all probably know, but then the feeling spreads and intensifies.
The room doesn't go blurry as such, but the strange melding-together spreads to my vision, and it begins to seem like I can see all around me, in a 360 degree arc. But everything I see is based on what I'm looking at, as if my line of vision has expanded to surround me. And while I'm aware that things are separate, I seem to sense an underlying unity of things that is very much like the Buddhist notion.

Soon the walls are my memories (or what I think are my memories) are the words I'm hearing from those around me are one great swelling welter of united sensation that I have no choice to embrace. My heart is beating like crazy and every new sensation thrills and dances across my mind and or skin (they're the same thing), but at the same time I've already had it and have been having it forever.
It's no wonder that others who've had this experience have claimed to see God.

And then I crash to the ground and bounce and twitch across the floor like an electrocuted octopus, in what might very accurately be called a spastic manner. Which is less fun, especially when I wake surrounded by vomit and paramedics and a pounding bloody headache of Doom. Because this is the best I can do to describe the sensation that hits me when I'm coming up, not on acid or shrooms or eccies, but my own brain's stupid misfiring signals. Epilepsy for the lose.

So, the initial deja vu? A sign that somewhere in my brain, an incoming sensory signal has twitched off course and passed through a storage bank, making it seem like a memory. Raindrops that signal a storm. It's a very reliable warning sign, and one that instantly kicks my heart rate up an octave with fear.
If I'm on the computer, or watching TV, I will instantly shut it down, leave the room and go outside to a more calming environment.

And the glorious sensation of oneness that suffuses my experience, if I can't 'shut it down'? Yeah, that's Def Con Eppy. Look for somewhere soft and shout for someone sympathetic and lie down. It's beached fish impersonation time.

Of course, it's hard to navigate when you can see the hand of Yahweh in all things, but not the fucking door. I have literally no idea what I'm doing on these occasions, but I'm reliably informed that I generally spin in circles and my cries for help become incoherent babble. The great mixing bowl of signals in my head is throwing up a million crossed wires, and while the sensation is as close as I'll ever get to religion, I'd rather never experience it again.

So. Drugs. Basically, this sort of thing is what I imagine LSD or psylocibin might do to you, only it keeps going. If so, I can see why people do it - although it would get tiring eventually, wouldn't it? Even discounting the possibility of a bad trip, which with my psyche is highly likely.
I've never dared to do hallucinogenic drugs, even though I oh-so-want to, if only to recapture that sense that the universe has underlying content and therefore purpose. There are plenty of stories that back this experience of acid up. But, in the manner of a cargo cult, I fear that to experience it again would be to summon the epileptic consequences, so I don't mess with my brain any more than I need to.

Besides, if I did take those drugs, I'd be able to ramble on at even more length about the harmonic nature of things, man, and, let's face it, the beginning of this post was bad enough for that. Wouldn't have bothered if there wasn't a payoff and some vomit waiting for you.
(, Mon 20 Sep 2010, 17:23, 4 replies)
The only club at which I can remember regularly hallucinating on pills. Usually it was people's faces, such as everyone was suddenly wearing glasses or had foliage growing on their chops and that.
Oh, and I saw a red corvette on the dance floor.
(, Mon 20 Sep 2010, 16:47, 1 reply)
Experimenting with DXM.
Having managed to get hold of quite a vast amount of Dextromethorphan, see here, en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dextromethorphan.

I decided to have a night in seeing what all the fuss was about. started off with maybe 200mg mixed into a drink. Waited a bit, Not much happened. Another 200mg, again not much happened. A bit more maybe 100mg, oh my vision is pretty blurry can't really see straight or concentrate fairly similar to ketamine and at least I know I'm getting somewhere maybe another 250mg will get me to the hallucinating stage i desire and my god didn't it just.

I spent maybe the next 3 hours tripping my beautiful tits off. highlights included;

Instead of my familiar feet I now had pot noodles staring back at me.

Also staring at me was a bluey/green alien (A couple of Dvd's) emerging from the corner of the room.

I spent a large amount of time crouched on my make shift raft (sofa) making sure I was safe from the sharks lurking in the sea (carpet).

I then stood in my bedroom head bowed, both arms curled over above my head with my hands shaped like claws thinking I was a dinosaur sculpture or possibly just a dinosaur but I was unable to move I forget which one.

I eventually attempted to go to sleep but when it came down to it I had one thing preventing me from reaching the land of nod. What one thing I hear you ask? (or see you sign if you are a deaf mute). I had to make sure I pulled my weight and didn't upset the other Vikings by rowing the long boat as fast and hard as I could so we could reach Norway as fast as possible....

Length? I think there was at least 14 of us on that sturdy vessel.
(, Mon 20 Sep 2010, 16:24, Reply)

(, Mon 20 Sep 2010, 15:38, 6 replies)
I don't really remember all the details, but I went to school with this seriously posh kid who lived in a country house full of antiques and heirlooms. One weekend his parents went away, so he decided to have a party - basically we ended up doing Massive Drugs, and when we woke up the entire place was absolutely trashed. After laughing at Hugo pissing himself with raw, unadulterated panic for a couple of minutes, we all got stuck into tidying up. Kim and Aggie would have been impressed by our skill and industriousness, and we thought we were going to pull it off until somebody noticed a massive fucking scratch in this really fancy coffee table. Luckily though, we managed to find somebody in the phone book who magically restored it to new, but just at the last minute before his parents arrived home, Hugo noticed that somebody had drawn a moustache on a great big oil painting. Can't remember what happened after that though - must have been the Massive Drugs.
(, Mon 20 Sep 2010, 15:07, 5 replies)
Maybe some of the medically trained can shed some light on this.

Procured by a mate, we drank it in school.

There's a large portion of my school time after that which I genuinely have no recollection of.

WTF is it? Not Oral Morphine as the name would suggest?

EDIT : fuck me what a pair of dopey bastards we were. Thanks Google.
(, Mon 20 Sep 2010, 14:26, 15 replies)
This is more of a precautionary tale for the kids.

Around 10 years ago I ate so many magic mushrooms one night that I thought the 1 kilo tub of Daz washing powder on a shelf in the kitchen was in fact God. I sat and stared in awe at this tub for an entire night, convinced that all the light in the universe was emanating from it. Whenever anyone asked my what I was doing I could only get as far as "it's Go..." before an uncontrollable fit of giggles kicked in. Later, when I tried to explain what I'd experienced, I still couldn't. I would just dissolve into hysterical laughter.

This is a precautionary tale because for years afterwards I couldn't even think about or even say the words "washing" and "powder" in the same sentence without dissolving into a fit of giggles. I couldn't even look at washing powder in the supermarket without behaving like a psychiatric patient on day release.

My girlfriend of the time had to do all our washing.

It's now 10 years since God gate and I'm more or less recovered but I can't help grinning manically as I'm typing this. I think I may have broken a bit of my brain.
(, Mon 20 Sep 2010, 14:20, 5 replies)
A friend of mine
told me about his return trip from Helter Skelter. He'd nodded off in the passenger seat and woke up to the driver having a bit of a panic: the headlights of a lorry were looming towards them and the driver was frantically trying to spin the wheel. The other two passengers woke up too, and the driver, after a few further panicked stamps on the break, opened the door and hurled himself out of the car.

It transpired shortly after this that all four of them had pulled over into a layby for a nap several hours earlier, and the driver had woken up, seen the approaching headlights and, in his addled haze, assumed he was still driving. Where the idea of hurling himself out of the car came from though, I've no idea.
(, Mon 20 Sep 2010, 14:14, 3 replies)
"Yeah, whatever"
In my long gone youth, I did a fair bit of weed, mainly because it was a) naughty and b) didn't come with attached hangovers, unlike my other favourite mongfluid, Jack Daniels.

Eventually I grew out of it, mainly because I had a job with regular drug tests.

Then I broke my legs, and they put me on post-op diamorphine(heroin). Marvellous stuff, like fillet steak, sex and that sensation of waking up on the first day of the holidays between freshly ironed sheets.

I hated it. While it was in effect, a small part of my brain kept saying "this isn't you, it's a chemical". Every time it wore off, my body kept saying, "want more! want more!" I don't take orders from something that would fit on my fingernail.

And once I'd put distance between it and me, I realised that it had taken away emotion: love, rage, pity, despair. Like having my soul amputated.

Fuck that. You might not like me straight (sometimes I don't like me straight) but it's definitely me.
(, Mon 20 Sep 2010, 14:11, Reply)
Acid and home-made ninja turtles
These sort of stories are very hard to write about without sounding like a boasty twat. Still that's exactly what I am so here goes.

One of the most memorable was when I travelled to Birmingham to pick up a batch of Hoffmans, some high strength blotter acid. We got home, and from then on the night is a blur. I awoke the next afternoon in the airing cupboard, clutching a flowerpot with a telephone taped to my chest.

I clambered out of my cupboard to survey a scene of devastation. Every door handle in the house had a carton of orange juice pushed on to it, with large puddles on the floor. Raising my eyes heavenwards I saw, instead of God, a variety of pizza packaging and canned food and drink gaffer taped to the ceiling.

Cursing, I made my way downstairs, and opened the balcony windows to let some fresh air in. As I did so I looked down, and there, twelve stories below, was the tv out of my bedroom, along with the contents of my freezer (mainly belonging to my housemate).

Sighing, I took a stella out of the fridge, rummaged through the kitchen ashtray to make a butt spliff, chuckled ruefully, and made an adult decision to clean up later, after a bit of shuteye.

I entered my bedroom, and all thoughts of a nice sleep left my head. Lying atop my bed, snoring manfully, was my friend Pete, with whom I'd gone out.

He had become a home made mutant hero turtle.

With the shock arrived some flashbacks - the gaffer tape fun had continued and with the aid of glowsticks had made him some nunchucks, a gaffer tape eye-band (which later removed his eyebrows), a wok as a shell (it was never the same afterwards) and some t-shirts as knee pads
(, Mon 20 Sep 2010, 12:39, 5 replies)
We were tripping on magic mushrooms and BOY were we tripping
We were four of us, and to a man and woman a completely incompetent, giggling loony mess.

We decided that it was all too much for everyone else, and that the kindest thing would be for us to go home, where we could listen to our own tunes and spaz out however we liked without the worry of upsetting anyone.

We came out of the club and got into a cab and dear Christ we were high. We were giggling, outright laughing, offering the cabbie some M&Ms at one point telling him we just wanted to go home not the bleedin moon hahahahahahahahahaha just can we go home via the garage because we need fags too please and probably a cashpoint because we'll need money for the thing that you know food and we'd been driving for bloody ages when we suddenly realised we were still outside the club and the terrified cabbie was saying over and over in a frightened voice "I'm not a cab! I'm not a cab!"
(, Mon 20 Sep 2010, 12:28, 3 replies)
Are you fucked? No, but my headache's gone...
Back in the day, when every weekend was a pillfest of clubbing, after-parties and slow, sensual come downs, a housemate and I used to make a very pretty penny, in a very grey area of the law.

We were drug dealers, to an extent. Him, a fine arts student. Me, a business school dropout. And together, we made over £50,000 in less than a year.

The two of us had something in common, we were always asked at clubs, parties and festivals, if we, 'knew anywhere we could score some pills'. I don't know why we were always pegged for dealers. But after one long night of constant questioning, we formulated a plan to cash in on our presumed identities.

Mr Fine Arts student designed an intricate, copper wire 'seal' in the shape of an apple, complete with tiny stalk and leaf. I then procured 1,000’s of paracetamol tablets, going from pharmacy to pharmacy, from to supermarket to supermarket, buying the maximum I could from each proprietor.

We then spent hours with a cut-throat razor, scraping the pills clean of any design or manufacturer's imprint. The 'cleaned' pills were then lined up and the re-branding would begin. Using a pair of thick tongs, the arty one would heat up the copper apple by holding it over a boiling kettle for a minute or two. He would then bring the hot wire down slowly onto the pills, and embed a perfect apple design in the centre.

We called them 'White Apples'. They looked the absolute business.

They sold for £15 a pop. We'd hit the clubs (things were easier back then, there were four clubs in town that held over 500 people) and push out 30-40 in the early part of the night, then leave comfortably before anyone realised our duplicity.

We dressed differently each week. And we were making money. The best were festivals. At Glastonbury we shifted over 500 White Apples. Reading and Leeds the same year, equally as many.

And then we got caught. Well arty-farty mate did. He was pulled with nearly 600 of our beauts on the way to Sheffield. He was arrested and bailed pending investigations. He maintained (as we’d practiced a thousand times), that the pills were paracetamol, that he was only selling them to ensure, 'kids didn't harm themselves on real drugs'. Analysis proved him correct. Paracetamol is not a controlled drug. The CPS did not like the look of this case one bit, and they left it well alone. No charges were brought.

So...if you were one of those poor little ravers, who'd saved up all week for your big Gatecrasher night out, and spent your group’s collective £150 on ten White Apples, I am well and truly sorry.

Am I fuck.
(, Mon 20 Sep 2010, 12:06, 59 replies)
Young love and Vicodin
When I was younger (not older, as I am not a time-traveller, I cannot yet tell you my future), I had a cranial cave-in, courtesy of a friendly neighbourhood car accident.

Just one week before running my head into the front of a lorry, I met a young man named Aaron. Aaron and I got along so smashingly, I was heard to tell my roommate, “Good Jesus, he might just be the most annoying man I have ever met.”

Upon my release from the hospital, I was given a mind-bending brew of opiates, brain-numbers and muscle-relaxers which left me tame, lethargic and completely incapable of forming new memories. I spent most of my time asleep, attempting to prevent my head from falling off or making the occasional trip to the local canteen to try to remember what food was.

Aaron, whose opinion of me was considerably higher than mine of him, installed himself at the side of my bed, holding my withered hand and wiping my brow. Night and day, he gazed into my unfocused Vicodin-drowned eyes and, over the course of time, fell in love. He became a loving boyfriend and we enjoyed frequent intimate acts. I deflowered him, and he declared it the most perfect day of his life. He was meant to be with me, he said, and he would be with me forever.

Many months later, my parents picked me up to enjoy my Easter vacation with them. Faster than you can say ‘drug dependency’, my mother flushed all of my meds down the toilet and, after several days of my abject agonising depression and sicking up all down my tits, sent me back to my dorm.

I arrived, clear-headed, to find that my roommate had moved out. Aaron knocked up at my door and, although I did understand who he was and what he was doing there, I wasn’t quite aware that we were as in love as he said we were. He was fundamentally a familiar stranger, but nothing more than the nameless person you sit next to on the bus every day.

It was a matter of moments before he had irritated me to the point where I wanted to stab myself in the ears. “You’ve changed,” he told me, accusingly. Yes, Aaron, that is because I am awake. Well, he said with dollops of love dripping from his soppy idiot eyes, we can still make it work.

And we did. For one more day.

I couldn’t stand this idiot-eyed cavemanic soap-dodging muttonhead. Yes, he was bearable – when I was unconscious and couldn’t hear or smell him. And how could he only ‘love’ me when I had the brain activity of a shoe? That’s rather rape-y, yes? Speaking of which, I have zero recollection of ever enjoying a bit of penis-waggling with him, nor do I remember a significant amount of what he refers to ‘the greatest relationship of his life.’ He is genuinely a non-entity in my life story, aside from being the other half of a long-term relationship that I just don’t remember.

My aggrieved roommate, upon hearing that I’d turfed Aaron back into the world to find another woman incapacitated by drugs, moved back in. She asked, “What were you thinking?” and I could genuinely and pleasingly answer, “Well, thanks to the drugs, not much at all.”
(, Mon 20 Sep 2010, 11:13, 15 replies)
Fluoxetine, Citalopram, and Escitalopram.
I have tried all of these.
I have been a member here for a while. I haven’t posted in some time. It’s not because I can’t be bothered, it’s because I have a hard time doing anything these days.
When I was very young, I was diagnosed with depression. I would cry for ages, for no obvious reason. I tried cutting my wrists twice before I was 16. Boo hoo, huh?
I’m very happily married now. My wife is so supportive. In February, I had an operation on my knee, and I became overwhelmed again with depression. It hadn’t struck me for some time; I thought that part of my life was over. But it came back with a vengeance. At the insistence of my wife, I went to the doctor.
I was given a prescription for Fluoxetine, more commonly known as Prozac. The same stuff they gave that guy in The Sopranos. I began to lose sleep. Waking at midnight, eyes wide open until 7am, go to work, get home, go to bed at 8, absolutely shattered. Repeat.
I wasn’t feeling any happier, either.
The doctor switched me to Citalopram. I began to sleep. At work. On the bus, train, etc. The most bizarre, vivid, lucid dreams every time. And I wasn’t feeling any happier. I became nervous, self conscious, and twitchy. It became a struggle to get off the train in the mornings, as there were too many people there, watching me as I walked, ready to ridicule me.
I began catching earlier trains in the morning, and later trains at night, so I could avoid the crowds. I wouldn’t go out with the lads at work for a pint, because I was afraid of what they might say, and how it must be so obvious that I was depressed.
I started wearing headphones every time I went outside, so I wouldn’t be able to hear people talking about me, pretend I was texting so no one would approach me, and I could retreat into my own world. It came to a head when my wife and I went to Sainsburys on a Saturday morning. I couldn’t get out of the car, I was shaking too much. I was so scared of all the people, the massive crowd, the unavoidable jeering and ridicule I would endure. Everyone would notice that I’ve gained weight, that my glasses are a bit crooked, that my shoes have uneven wear because of my limp from my operation. My wife gently led me home, and she did the shopping herself.
I spent a week in my house, unable to gather up the courage to go to work, where surely people were making fun of me even as I sat there. My job is in IT, and I was luckily able to do some work from home. My boss was very supportive, and bent over backwards to help me out. Very lucky indeed- they could have just sacked me.
I went to a therapist. I was diagnosed with SAD – not Seasonal Affective Disorder, but Social Anxiety Disorder. It’s incredibly debilitating. I always have the fear.
I’ve had a few panic attacks, once when the crowds at the bus stop (4 people) became too large. Basically I went into a fit, collapsed into the foetal position, and couldn’t breathe.
I’ve switched to Escitalopram. It’s harsh. I don’t have so much fear anymore, but its still a weight on my mind. I’m back at work. Everything is a chore. I’ve become extremely sensitive to things anyone says to me. I question every word in every email – are they looking down on me? Are they being nasty in some subtle way? I even question my wife. I’m dizzy, disorientated; I speak slowly, sounding like a mong.
But it does have some benefits. I can get on the train now, though; and I can speak to people in my office if they approach me – I used to just stutter and blush and fail miserably at the interaction.
I can even post again finally on my favourite w3bsite.
Sorry for lack of funnies.
(, Mon 20 Sep 2010, 10:54, 12 replies)
god, the universe and legal highs
you know how everyone has that one mate who non of your other friends like, the bloke you introduce to everyone and they all think he's a cock and you can't understand why. well having spent a long weekend with him at a festival i could finally see the valid points that other friends make of him "going to far"...

this is a lengthy one so by all means go to the next story if it's to long for you.

the story go's...

said friend and i (whom i shall call kev) were going to the big chill festival in 2009. kev and i studied together and yeah, back then when it came to drinking and drugs he did take it a bit to far (e.i. not knowing when to stop and making himself a mess). i was glad to hear these days were over as he claimed to be "tea-total". so with that i'm waiting for him at victoria coach station looking forward to a jolly weekend that "won't be to drug crazy", of course i was wrong.

kev eventually turned up an hour late, twitching like a loon and looking like the chemically induced bastard child of bez and super-hans from peep show. turns out according to kevs warped logic, taking legal highs still count as being "tea total". additional to this he hadn't slept the night before, just stayed up on his own getting high.

for anyone who isn't familiar with the legal highs marketed as 'bath salts', the high is pretty much exactly the same as cocaine (the after effect was different for me and kev but i'll get to that later). according to the daily mail the streets are paved with this stuff and they'll have you believe that it so evil, they're laced with peados and immigrants.

so we get a later coach, kev annoying the shit out of me as he just won't sit still and is talking complete bollocks! i'm assuming most folks here know just how annoying high people are when you're sober.

so we finally get to the festival, kev is annoying the living fuck out of me for the next two days, no matter how much i try to mingle with others, he fucks it up and make us look like loons. so what the hell i decided to join him...

like i said the effects are pretty much the same as cocaine, i had a great night and was fun. that's pretty much all i can say. i woke up feeling like shit, my mind was really else where. i pretty much stayed in the tent all day the next day and kev, fuck knows what happened to him that day. it was the 3rd day running that kev didn't have a good nights sleep (the odd hours sleep here and there) and took way more than he should of bath salts.

after another day of the festival sunday morning arrives, i'm still feeling like shit so i'm thinking it's time to go home. i look at kev's tent and notice he isn't there. i had lost him for a day and had no idea what happened to him. just then i get a call from his mobile...

"hello is that sweaty?"
"hi i work in the medical tent here at the festival, i have your friend 'trev' here. he's not feeling to good, can you come and collect him?"

bloody hell thinks i, although i'm packed and ready to go, i go to "collect" kev and see just what up. as i get near the medical tent i receive another phone call, this time from kev him self. turns out he "escaped" the medical tent and needed me to find him. of course it would be like finding a needle in a haystack.

for a whole weekend taking care of one person who just didn't stop with these bath salts and just wouldn't let him self sleep was really beginning to grate. i still felt like shit and i'm going home. ok in a few ways i stitched him but hey, he's an adult and shouldn't really rely on me to nurse him.

2 weeks later....

i receive a phone call from kev and find out just what happened after i left. you know how people brake into festivals, well kev broke out!
with no sleep for 4 days and to much alcohol and legal highs, kevs mind really became messed up. he was convinced that the festival was a prison camp and the stuards were prison guards out to get him. having eventually broke through a fence after shoulder barging in (and enduring heckles and cheers from a small crowd he had gathered) kev was eventually "free".

now in the middle of no where in the english countryside, kevs body and skin head was exposed to the blistering sun. kev walked for about 3 hours down some country road and got him self really badly sun burnt.

a police car eventually pulls up just to check if he is ok, kevs warped logic comes in to play so he tries to run away thinking that he will be dragged back to the 'prison camp festival'. of course he is then bundled into the police car and taken to the local station.

however this isn't the worst part of how kev ending up, in the interview room kev starts speaking the biggest load of bollocks you could speak of after 4 days without sleep, to much legal highs and to much booze.

of all things he could speak of in the interview room he speaks about... god and the universe!

with that the police felt they had no alternative but to put him in a mental hospital!

yep, the stupid bastard took it so far he ended up getting sectioned!
there he lived for the next few days, his grandad had to get him out and convince the hospital he is not nutts.

to far mate, just to far...
(, Mon 20 Sep 2010, 9:42, 8 replies)
Anouther unintentional and legal high
Never having had an interest in doing hard drugs, I've never had a real trip. This unintentional event is as close as I've been.

A friend of mine hosted a wine and cheese night. Being a student on summer break, he held it on a week night. Having work the next day, I drove round and didn't drink. I did eat an insane amour of cheese, enough to give me s slight head ache, which was odd. A point came in the evening when I was tierd and everyone else was drunk, so I bade a sad farwell and drove home.

My god my dreams were vivid, and strange, super strange, people kept switching shape, the general theams would jump about, all the colours I saw were so bright. It was like a cartoon. I kept dreaming that I'd woken up, so much so that it was a dream within a dream within a dream within a dream. When I finaly did wake up, I was convinced this was anouther dream, and decided I'd start to fly. Shockingly, I was still lying in bed and decided I was awake and that it was time for work.

Turning up at work, I looked a mess. Bleary eyed and messy hair, I shuffled into work. "You look like shit mate, what did you do last night?" asked a mate. "Urrrgh, too much cheese." was my response.
(, Mon 20 Sep 2010, 8:57, 2 replies)
The REAL hard stuff
I've never been big on drugs, I used to drink quiet heavily but this has died down since I realised I was spending 2 days wages on a night out I don't even remember. I have tried weed a few times, now I like the social aspect of passing a joint round, but I never feel anything from it. What I do feel the effect from is throat lozengers.

At the start of this year, I got a short stint working on the phones for BA lost baggage. Unfortunatly, I had a bad cough at the time, leaving my throat raw. This isn't ideal when your on the phone all day, so I grabbed some throat lozengers before leaving the house. Necking a few on the train, I was vaigly aware that I was going over the recomended dousage, but ignored it, after all, what's the worst that can happen?

Turns out the worst that can happen is a disjointed feeling, numb mouth and a mini freak out. I checked the pack and found them to be more then a year out of date. Texting a friend for advice, I was told to drink pleanty of water, which helped a bit. I now stick to the guidelines.
(, Mon 20 Sep 2010, 8:19, Reply)

My mate was on acid and he walked into a dentist's office and said "I need help; I think I'm a moth"

The dentist said "You don't need a dentist, you need a psychiatrist"

"Yeah" my mate said "I know"

"So why did you come in here then?" the dentist asks.

My mate says "The light was on dumbass"
(, Mon 20 Sep 2010, 7:02, 6 replies)

This question is now closed.

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