Here’s What It Feels Like To Get Beaten Up While You’re Tripping On LSD

It was multi day late in May so shockingly brilliant and awesome, I felt like a feathery Persian little cat who’d prepared the universe to rub my hairy gut. Of course, mother had deserted us without a sending address and father conceded he was attempting to keep me out from the house. In any case, as I sat on that burial ground tree limb with the daylight giving my spirit a sensual caress, I felt as though the entirety of my issues were just dandelion petals I could fit in one palm and send delicately shuddering into the brilliant breeze.

Truly, I was THAT high on corrosive.

So was my companion Steve, who appeared as though me, just with a greater nose and wavy red hair.

On that fine day, empowered by the LSD, I would gather clairvoyant capacities that drove me to effectively foresee that a more peculiar meandering underneath us in the graveyard would before long interruption from his walk and start contacting his penis. It took my blasting and profoundly compromising VOICE OF GOD impersonation, conveyed under front of the tree limbs, to send the errant memorial park degenerate dashing endlessly in frenzy and zipping himself once more into unnerved virtue.

Quiet as a couple of pink seals, Steve and I coasted out of the graveyard, onto the metro, and into downtown Philly, where we appreciated the world-celebrated three-dimensional shades of their hoagies and the effectively recognizable fractal designs radiating from their cheddar steaks. We got a mid-night screening of Citizen Kane, which turned out to be definitely more hallucinogenic than I’d recalled.

Around midnight, following multi day of settling on reasonable decisions, we choose to begin catching a ride home toward suburbia.

A corroded old Chevy pulls over, and two passenger’s-side entryways pop open. Two tipsy Italians venture out and movement for Steve and I to get in the vehicle. I sit in advance, sandwiched between the conventionally Dago driver and an oily bulldog who calls himself Cosmo. Steve sits between two oregano-scented substance protuberances in the back.

Cosmo says they won’t hurt us in the event that we ransack an alcohol store for them.

I reject and act like it’s kind of a senseless thought.

Cosmo’s clench hand crushes my nose while the vehicle’s as yet moving. CRUNCH! I can hear the bones in my nose breaking. It’s the hardest I’ve at any point been punched. At that point another punch. Also, another. What’s more, another. Also, another. Furthermore, another.

I can hear they’re thrashing Steve in the back.

My blood is splashing all over the place.

I’m still high on corrosive.

The driver maneuvers into a relinquished dumping ground.

Cosmo hauls me out of the vehicle. I wriggle free and race home, blood showering from my nose with every frantic walk.

When I return home, I’ve drained so much that my pants are more red than blue. I get a shocked, corrosive splashed look at myself in the mirror. My face doesn’t resemble my face any longer. My nose is the extent of an orange. It would seem that a wound, aggravated scrotum.

I awaken father from his tipsy stubbly sleep.


“For what reason should I take you to the clinic?” he asks with half-dunked aloofness. “You didn’t perfect your room. You didn’t do the dishes. I shouldn’t need to take you to the medical clinic.”

There I stand, my nose tumbling off my face, and father needs to pick nits. Following five minutes of my sincere arguing, he appears to understand my nose is tumbling off my face and reluctantly gets dressed.

He reproves me right to the emergency clinic. As I get stinging dark fastens under wincingly splendid lights, father informs the specialist all regarding his child, the disappointment.

In transit back home at 4AM, he is overpowered by an impulse to stop at a nearby burger joint to have a few eggs. STILL gently stumbled out and with my face all swollen and sewed and wrapped and wounded, I choose to remain outside in his pipes van while he eats his screwing eggs. As I lay in the midst of corroded copper channels, I lead some peculiar clairvoyant hereditary separation custom among me and father. “My tissue rejects him,” I thought in my own psychonoautical Terence McKenna-ish way.

Those are the kind of contemplations that jump out at you when you’re youthful, vainglorious, high on corrosive, you’ve quite recently persevered through a savage beating, and your dad’s acting like a jerkoff. You think things, for example, “My substance rejects him,” and it bodes well. With development and collectedness and no less than a long time since the last time I got punched, it sounds cringey as damnation to me, however under those conditions it appeared well and good.

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