Please Don't Walk In My Puke.

I have to say, three out of four people who tell you that they go/went to raves for the music and not the incredible high from drugs are absolutely full of shit and probably higher the George W Bush at a college fraternity reunion.

But this isn't about crumby coked-out politicians.  No, no, no.  It's just a flash of a memory that led to a chain of other memories that are now spewing out of my head like explosive diarrhea and what ultimately pushed me over the edge to create this blog and finally record these memoirs if I may.  It's something I have sincerely been excited about for years but haven't been able to piece together the PLUR blur that totally consumed me from 1995 to 2003.  Sustenance of heavily psychedelic nature played a major part of my party hearty days.  Like all things I started gingerly and worked my tolerance to heroic levels and by 1997 I was a living chemistry set.  To my credit I stayed away from drugs such as meth, coke, and heroin for fear of my addictive personality liking them a bit too much though I'm sure the e-pills I ate like fucking tic tacs were cut with all three of the above mentioned and so much more.

So my night would start around 7PM picking up friends at various locations throughout Orange County or Los Angeles.  From there map point in DTLA or Hollywood then the drive back through Orange County through the always miserable 91Fwy to San Bernardino and beyond.  By the time I got the the location it felt like ants were colonizing in my skull from the 6 to 8 ephedrine "Mini-Thins" I/we had consumed.  Find parking spot and pray car doesn't get broken into.  Break out 40's of Ol English malt liquor and with speed and determination power-slam them on the walk from the parking lot to the line.  On line, eat one of many pills, optional acid or shrooms on the side.

X hours later be on third or forth pill completely wrecked and without fail some cute girl you want to bang the shit out of with your limp shriveled doped up cock would hand you a clove cigarette.  Half way through the thing the nausea hits like the thunderous hammer of the gods to the balls.  You take a knee like a wounded soldier while all your friends surround you, protectively "circling the wagon" cursing yourself for accepting that clove from that piece of ass.  Same scenarios, same cloves, different week.  The wretch is violent and barley comes with warning.  Your friends are supportive and you are so high there is zero embarrassment.
  
Then your done and you feel better.  No longer handicapped by insane levels of sedation.  Everything smooths out, now over the crest of the wave and finally you have spent enough of the night in utter ineffective communique with nothing and everything to find your home on the dance floor and move till the sun comes up.

On your way there you look back of that puddle of bile you left behind, that little piece of you, its uncanny symbolism.  Some people write graffiti to leave a mark, dogs piss on stuff, I'd puke a puddle.  Then I'd cringe as I watched you walk through chunks completely oblivious.  But that's ok.  I'm sure I walked through enough of your puke too.  At least that is what my JNCOs and shell-toed Adidas told me in the morning.