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Bat Country

I think it was about 5pm.



I think it was about 5pm. I went to play videogames and never came back, lost in the hallway between the bathroom and my room. I'm not sure exactly when the drugs hit, but I remember that one moment I was admiring the shape of my skull, and the next, as I stepped into my darkened room, I was lost in the nether regions of the mind. Trouble is afoot.

The bed calls with a soft promise of Conga Squad and pillows, and I can't think of anything else, so I lay down. Vague feelings of "is this bad?" "I'm not really having fun" swarm my head, but the tv in my head is being turned on. Lots of black people live here for some reason, and images of the rural south swarm my head. But I'm listening to funky house. Where's the logic in that. The shifty tendrils of confusion, void, and utter mindfuck are taking hold. All I can do is shift between the waking and the dreaming world by opening my eyes. My body is incapable of anything else. There is no running here, no jumping, no dancing, no movement. Just still life, like a bowl of fruit.

Time passes. I can't remember how long ago I ate the shrooms or if I'm passed my peak. Still floating in hyperspace, and my surroundings are covered in liquid movement. What's going on? What time is it? Forget about when the peak is over, deal with now. Is this unpleasant? Why am I not moving?

The music turns to menacing. Who did I anger? I'm still on the bed. I've been here a while now. The music has to change, I'm sick of this nonsense. I'm fucked up, but I still know that I'm more powerful than Winamp. Esthero. I relax. The bed.

Time passes for forever plus eternity. Dave is at the door, and I'm unprepared for this. Suddenly embarrassed because I'm laying on my bed at 7:30pm with all the lights on and music loud. My pupils must be like dinner plates. Am I caught? What's going on now?

Pleasantries are exchanged, Arts County Fair went well, except that I notice that Dave is wearing a bandage. Did I do that? Many things have transpired. This is the desert of the mind, where there's nothing, you're left only wondering how you got there.

Sometimes everyone needs a hug. Confident in myself after managing to make it to the computer, I decide the time has come for more drugs. The peak is over, I'm no longer in danger of losing my sanity. Th effervescent glow of Lady Jane makes an appearance, and I take off for the twilight of the mind once again. Weed is the square root of zero of the psyche, it reduces everything to a simple equation. Whereas before there is nothing but vague shapes in a world of confusion, now there are 3 things: music, food, warmth. Sailing the seas of drug culture.

Suddenly the door opens. Who's there. My god. People can exist without mushrooms? Who are they? How can this be? The mind is overwhelmed by a dawning realization that society has rules and regulations to stop people like me from taking advantage of people like them. How am I expected to converse in a state like this? Can't they understand that it's just not possible? Any guise of confidence that I 'know the situation' goes out the door as conversational error after conversational error arises. What time is it? God, it's 9 already.

Fuck the rules, I'm throwing 60 years of drug culture right back in their face. Society has rules? Yeah, well fuck society. Uncomfortable silence that I revel in. I'm taking the reigns of this situation, forcing my will upon the masses. That's right, keep your eyes moving. Lets see how you deal with my wavelength. You'll find it's a lot more fun when you give in. I can taste their uncomfortable dying thoughts in the air, topics that might have been pushed, but now can never be.

Suddenly more weed is called for. Others have arrived, but they're seperate. I had just about found my way out of this twisted carnival of social incompetence, but it's back to bat country for us.

The air gets lighter. Established society and drug culture combine to form a relaxing fit of laughter, and the storm has passed. We're all friends here. Hey, now I know why the hippies danced the way they did.

There's a firetruck outside. Or at least it looks like one. What's happening here? I feel like a national geographic writer, watching from my lofty perch. Wait, it's a street sweeper, not a fire truck. Maybe not, it's got flashing lights. What's going on? What purpose could this machine serve?

Time flies. Am I tired? Worn out. It feels like an edge of fun. Still a confusing place though. The time has come to say goodbye.

Finally, sweet oblivion. Farewell and goodnight.

MRCA Tyroler Gluckspilze
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