College Town On Acid

5 guys in a van. One of them me. The other 4 part of a reggae band.

Purchase two hits of acid on a spree or some sort of sour candy from the happy and laughing member of the band in the passenger seat.

Changing stations on the radio, lights, cars, smoke cigarettes and weed.

Parking… Loading in…. V.I.P. room with couches.

Acid kicks in.

Countless young empty headed smiling college kids fill out the room enjoying what appears to be their first beer. Lights. Music. Staring at my cell phone on a side stage walled with couches. Some nerdy DJ comes in doing what I imagine a DJ would consider a sound check. Making sure his iTunes loads properly I assume.

Start to notice two young and apparently offended women that look like they would suck your dick for a minute and fifteen seconds before telling you to fuck them while they lay there and do nothing. Mistaking that for sex or love or something. The empty headed beautiful vapid shells that society seems to prefer to produce. Assuming, I would acknowledge them. They smile because I am on some elevated stage. on a couch watching my friends band play in front of what I would assume is a couple hundred people. Was probably more impressed with that. And lights.

Reach in pocket. Drink tickets. Like 5 or something. Which means free drinks.

Walk to the bar and order whatever the bartenders say is good. I am so fucked up on acid I just think the thought of beer or whiskey is boring but something to do.

My friends reggae band is literally amazing. And am proud of them for playing in front of a large crowd.

Walk to the couches. Past some tall lanky men with giant heads and tiny brains in shirts that say “Security”. Probably the kind of guys to enjoy the “jab jab hug” UFC combos and yell about how macho and tough it is. Hopefully pretending to fit in, but you never know what a neanderthal is thinking.

Sit on the couch. Lay back, relax. Look at social media sites on my phone skimming boring mail because it’s a Saturday and everyone is pretending not to be online. Look up. Notice girls thinking I’m important for no reason other than I’m sitting on a couch. Slightly elevated because of the stage it’s on. Text a couple friends laughing about it and asking what they’re doing. Talking about my friends band and how they’re killing it. More or less laughing and thinking irrational things about situations. As if the bar owner owns the bar as a hobby so he can be the guy that says he owns a bar, the band plays as a hobby to impress their 16 yearold selves, and the nerdy DJs to get girls.

The entire world seems to be broke bands and nerdy DJs.

Young people in a loud room doing typical thoughtless dance moves. Entertained by the thought of saying hello to someone they’ve seen on campus or have a common class with.

Beginning to stumble around and explore the outside city that seems fake or plastic. Like being inside of a snow globe, some what shaken. Taking phone calls and texts, talking more like a mumbling Hunter S Thompson laughing and saying inane things that probably didn’t even make sense to myself as people ask what I’m doing tonight or what is going on. Not knowing that I went out of town last minute.

Bum a cigarette for a dollar. Light it. Ask what city it was and why there seemed to be so many tiny people. The guy looks puzzled. I laugh and say I’m joking as if it was some brilliant punch line and I’m some sitcom comedian waiting for the canned laughter and programmed applase.

Find the band on the side of the building. Laugh alot. Smoke weed. Get higher. Tell the band that there are so many stupid hot girls inside and they should talk to them. Laughing at how dumb everyone seems with the band hustle and how you can do anything if you’re on a stage.

Go inside. All of us on couches laughing. Start calling back girls, telling them they can come back. One starts to walk over, tell her to find the hottest girl here and bring her. She complies with some whatever looking girl. Tell her she’s not the hottest girl here and to find someone hotter. Keep on blah blah blah TC mark

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