Side Trip
by The Finn

There’s something to being up all night tweaking. Feeling your eyeballs get dry, the spit drying in the corners of your mouth. No matter how much water you drink, or how many cigarettes you smoke. The edge is still there. It won’t go away, no matter how hard you try. And when you’d been up for two days on coke and speed, there was really only one thing you could do. It was time for a trip.

night in dc.jpegWhen I was younger, I did more than my share of experimenting. I did my share, your share and I borrowed quite heavily from everyone you know. So, if you’re reading this and you haven’t so much as smoked a joint, I’m sorry. I took your share of the drugs. I stayed up for days at a time, completely out of my head. And I’d do it again.

What I did isn’t relevant because I can think of only one drug I intentionally said “No.” to. That’s it. And yet, out of the multitude, one thing really stood out. I really loved to trip. I loved the speediness. I loved the perma-grin. I loved the fact that minutes would feel like days and that whatever was on the stereo was the best thing I’d ever heard. Some of the most fun times I ever had when I was living in D.C. were when I would wander the city on acid.

All that fun, though, had to come with a price. And when tripping you could always tell when the price would come and it was pretty simple to figure out. Hour Seven. You see, when you first drop acid, nothing happens. Absolutely nothing. You can walk, drive, hold a conversation with your Grandmother about her favorite brownie recipe. For about twenty minutes. After that, everything starts to accelerate. You start to feel a little speedy and start to grin. You won’t be able to do anything about either, so it’s best just to let the acid run it’s course. It'll go away after an hour or so. And by that point, you won’t remember how to grin anymore.

Not that it’ll matter. Colors will be a lot more vibrant, sound will be intensified and little things that you wouldn’t normally notice, suddenly become absolutely fascinating. You’ll wander through that world for hours. And slowly, little by little, the colors will begin to mute themselves and the stereo will turn itself down. That small piece of stone you’ve been telling about your Grandmother’s brownies will stop telling you to shut up. And that’s right about Hour Seven. Hours Seven through Nine (or so) are penance.

Everything you’ve ever done wrong will come back to you. The ants you burned in the back yard when you were seven will demand retribution. The little girl you pushed down the stairs in the third grade will want more than the lame apology you offered for breaking her arm. And you’ll start to ruminate on the fact that you’re not nearly as great a guy as you think you are. Soul scrubbing is how I used to refer to it. Because when all was said and done, ten or eleven hours into the whole process, you felt like a new person. A little better, a little cleaner, somehow. And then you’d realize that you’d been up for at least twenty four hours and that you really, really need a shower.

thefinn doesn't think that LSD is for everyone. Please consult your doctor before ingesting any high quality hallucinogens. Archives


There's a cure for hour seven: drop a hit of mescaline.


i used to love the "speediness" of acid. then i found meth : )


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