I am not very proud of the time I ate a lot of mushrooms. Loneliness and boredom are terrible reasons to consume an eighth of psychedelic foodstuffs, but one lives and learns. I was about a half hour into my “trip” before reality melted into a nauseous hodgepodge of panic and elation. Thoughts became rapid and cyclical, like a single pair of hot underwear in a dryer. One such thought insisted I should go to Blockbuster and rent a videogame about 50 Cent (I think I had just seen a commercial on TV or something). I found myself walking at a thrilled pace to the local video store wearing sky blue swim trunks, my dead grandpa’s corduroy blazer, and a t-shirt which featured both a happy cat, and a frazzled cat at different points in the work week demonstrating coffee’s wacky role in 9 to 5 employment. I was totally on drugs. With pupils eclipsed into black pennies, my shroom-thusiasm swiftly morphed into extreme depression over the uninspired gameplay of 50 Cent: Bulletproof (something like NFL Blitz meets GTA). I panicked at the thought of returning the game sans explanation (was that allowed?). Ever the idea man, I scratched up the disc with a steak knife, and returned to the store claiming that the game wasn’t working. “I don’t know, it’s not playing, and stuff,” I mumbled, eyes reeling. “Really?” the butch female manager prodded, “because you’re the first person to ever check this game out, and if you ruined this game you’ll have to replace it.” I can’t remember how this situation resolved itself, but I know I never paid for the game. I also never go to Blockbuster anymore, so who knows.

Safely home again, I stared down at my feet and felt excellent about my shoe presence (apparently Reeboks can have auras). Then I took the logical next step, and gazed at a light on my smoke detector for a half hour before getting ass naked and taking a bath. I watched my legs grow like accelerated tree trunks and observed the faucet head floating around listlessly on the tile wall. Then it was out of the tub and onto Google images, looking at pictures of forests. Drawn to a dark area of a green setting, I grew bitter at a perceived invisible wizard who had cast a spell on me and was responsible for my altered state. I had forgotten all about the mushrooms, and reluctantly acknowledged the wizard’s powers, vowing to meet him again when I was more prepared. I also erratically scribbled “Fuck You Wizard!” on a notebook page and held it up to my monitor. He was too cowardly to show himself so I put some clothes on and remembered a Mr. Show sketch where a character having a freak out eats orange slices. I left my apartment for Ralph’s, passing picnicking Hispanics with droopy, textured faces, like characters from The Labyrinth. My heart felt like a hummingbird made of sadness that itself was hopped up on cocaine made of fear. I also found the geometry of plant life profound. Thankfully coming down, I forgot about the orange altogether and instead discovered Sour Patch Connectors, which have since become my favorite candy. In conclusion, do a lot of drugs...and eat candy!

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