Christmas K-Hole

My phone recently died on me, like they always do after being abused for a couple of years. Most times they don’t even last that long, so I was actually feeling a bit proud of myself. Maybe I am getting more responsible.  So, like any other almost 30 year old, I call my parents and request (i.e.demand) one of the upgrades on the Verizon account. They eventually acquiesce, mostly because they know I won’t stop calling until I hear the magic words.

So after one of my recently productive therapy sessions, I uber to the Verizon store and drool over the newest Samsung Galaxy. NO I DO NOT WANT AN iPHONE….never have, never will. I even surprise myself when I ask the saleswoman how much cheaper it would be to get the S7 instead of the S8. Obviously, I decide to go with the S8, and the heavily made up (we are talking full on circus clown) saleswoman switches out my SIM card and uses the cloud to restore all of the data to my shiney new phone.

I’m walking out the door and flipping through the apps when I see quite a few messages from unnamed contacts with a Virginia area code. “That’s odd” I think, “I don’t remember talking to any strangers down south”. Maybe they gave me someone else’s cloud. I’m intoxicated with excitement at the thought of getting to scroll through someone else’s private messages. When I open the first one, I’m crushed when I realize that they are merely my old texts, circa 2014, that somehow made it to the great harddrive in the sky.

That’s when I stumble across this gem, and my disappointment turns to nostalgia, and dare I say mirth. It was the first time I did Ketamine. Almost three years ago to the date…what a charming Christmas flashback.

My friend Kyle, a handsome and self destructive acquaintance from the revolving cast of characters that frequented recovery meetings in Winchester was the first person I met who ever even referenced the drug. He’d started going on and on about what a great experience he’d had prior that week.

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As you can see,  I was  annoyed with his babbling because he sounded like one of those disturbingly upbeat Jehovah’s Witnesses that you have to threaten with old sports equipment before they will get off your porch. I guess it was pretty compelling, what he thought he saw, but it was two in the morning, and unless he was bringing some over to share right then and right there, I didn’t give a fuck about his spiritual revelations. Cool dude, go make up some pamphlets and start hard parting your hair.

The next day, I called him after work (getting middle aged women drunk at an upscale bar downtown), and asked him for a gram of Ketamine. Like any social/recreational user, I wanted to ingest my chemicals alone in my bedroom. Less distraction, so I could make an informed decision on whether or not I would be adding K to my ever changing cocktail.

It  was almost ten by the time I saw the headlights of Kyle’s silver Infiniti emerge at the bottom of the driveway. He was playing 30 Seconds to Mars when I climbed into the passenger seat, and I immediately turned the volume down to “2”, and told him ” I’ll be generous with the “2” since you are driving to Manassas”.

On the way back to Winchester, I was anxious to start tranquilizing myself like a sick Doberman, and we took turns snorting the shiny flakes off an old magazine. “Is it supposed to look like road salt?” I asked Kyle as i tilted my head back and spinkled water up both nostrils. ” yeah, this dude’s K is always the best, and not just according to him”, he said as he wedged a $100 bill into his nose so he could suck up the other tiny line I’d set out. He did all of this without taking his hands off the steering wheel.

I was almost back to my apartment when it started to kick in. If I had to compare it too something, I would say that it felt like a moderate dose of Ativan, with a sprinkling of Vyvanse, and maybe just a touch of Dextromethorphan.  I felt pretty good, but I wasn’t blown away. Did I just waste $60 on some child grade animal tranq? Maybe I should have made a payment on my Chase Visa card and they would have stopped calling every day for at least a month. “I don’t know dude, maybe this just isn’t my drug” I said to Kyle ” No man, trust me, you just need to do about three times more than you just did  And then lay down, make sure you lay down”.

I figured it was worth a shot, so I crawled into my bed and set out a third of the gram, blew it, and laid back.

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The last trip is pure bliss, and when I finally crawl out of it, all I can think is “I really wish I could go back”. I would live in that world…switch my real self for my unconscious self in a second. I wouldn’t even have to consider it. Yes, when? now!

 

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I had finally achieved the  final level, the neuro-atomic meta physiological, of Timothy Leary’s Eight-Circuit Model of Consciousness (wiki it or we will be here all day). The only downside is that I don’t think I ever ended up buying Christmas gifts that year.