james_

You know how sometimes, you smoke too much weed, and you go crazy, but you actually dont, but you think you have, but you havent?
I wasnt sure what I was talking about, but judging by the looks of rapt attention on my two companions faces, It was important. Tonights healthy consumption of indole ring based compounds had woken the great bore within, there was a point at the end of this sentence, and god damn you I was gonna get there if it killed me!
In timely fashion, and in seeming order to save my endangered dignity, a lanky shape cast a shadow over our table. On closer investigation the shadow was mine, and I realised I was standing with my index finger raised to the sky, a diatribe poised on my lips, ready to cast its bullshit payload on an unsuspecting, and undeserving public house audience. We made our excuses and left.
Ever notice how pub car parks always look the same? No, guess not. I seem to be alone in this delusion. However, this car park looked much more the same. Than the others, I mean.
Its kinda like a space port here, we could get a taxi, go to Milton Keynes!
Shall we not?
Is that a pigeon?
A train, even.
Guess we must have gone home about then, because ten minutes later I woke up in my bed and the inside of my face was absolutely exhausted. I rolled a joint and donned my dressing gown, heading for the sitting room and sweet televisual bliss. The day after an intense psychedelic experience requires quiet reflection, meditation, and Richard and Judy. Possibly Diagnosis Murder too.
I have often wondered if one should say a prayer before you indulge in marijuana. The charas smoking sadhus of the hindu tradition say Bom Shiva! before lighting their chillums, but I could never think of anything to say that didnt make me feel stupid so I lit up in dignified silence. Everything was just slightly off. The jumble sale that was my mind was being pieced together slowly. It seemed to happen in discrete events, each one comprising of absolutely nothing changing, but everything being slightly less weird, and alien. I really wanted a sandwich. Or a McDonalds, but the nearest McDonalds was in Truro, and I really didnt feel like I could face the outdoors yet. Let alone a strange indoors too.
Daytime TV should always be watched with the volume set just below the level of comprehension. The words do not matter. The sounds are meant only to comfort you, balm your soul with their gently rolling gibberish and non celebrity interviews, a tide of tastefully lit sets to inspire in the watcher a fountain for eternal vegetable serenity. Visual opium.
A man tires of these things, and I felt a change was in order. Rising unsteadily and walking with awkward gait to the kitchen area, I began thinking of the different possibilities for a mid morning snack. Was a steak too extreme? Would it be terrible of me to fry some chips? Maybe I could order a curry? Unable to decide, I opted for a compromise and grabbed a shower.
The day seems to go quickly when youre on the comedown. Its like you just bumble through it, even if youre not smoking your head gets full, and everything gets sort of jumbled up. It sounds stupid, but I like that feeling. I feel comfortable, and relaxed. All the fight is gone from me after the heroism of the trip. Is this how Samson felt, his nazirite locks cut, nothing left to do but believe? Perhaps Im over dramatising the situation. Sometimes you should just stay in bed, I guess.