The tabs came in a tiny green piece of paper with the acid folded inside. “Enjoy your trip,” my friend smirked.
So a couple of years back, a bunch of top secret files became declassified thanks to the Freedom of Information Act and according to one of these files, the government had secretly converted the Control Center into a CIA research facility shortly after it was officially decommissioned in 1965.
A drug that makes you feel good for no good reason? Seemed like cheating to me.
I haven’t done a lot of different drugs in my lifetime so far, but I have done a “not so healthy” handful.
The moon landing was faked in order to keep women down.
Is anyone more given to slippery, specious rhetoric and empty, treacly platitudes than politicians and the hippie “activists”-slash-entertainers of yore?
My boyfriend had this great idea that the next time he took acid, he wanted it to be at a theme park. Except when we got there, high as can be, he saw a sign saying the rollercoaster he wanted to go on was closed that day.
5 guys in a van. One of them me. The other 4 part of a reggae band.
A digressive essay might partake of play, exploration, philosophical investigation, the Freudian free-association game, Surrealist automatic writing, the Situationist dérive, the Web drift, or all of the above.
Sometimes if I’m walking with someone I don’t know very well I think about how pieces of a building could collapse on us in a freak accident and then we’d forever be tied by some thing that happened to us that neither of us could control. I think about how embarrassing it would be to watch a stranger bleed out.