When I was in my teens and early twenties, I used to hang out with people shadier than me. I tried to participate in some sketchiness as well, but I was never clever enough to avoid trouble. I am like a petty-crime clutz. 

I was also well out of my comfort zone in my friend group. Even so, my parents were dying, I was weird, and these were the people that accepted me anyway. It’s nothing but love; it just wasn’t my world.

One example of my attempt to fit was smoking weed and, on multiple occasions, sherm. Nine out of 10 times I would smoke bud, I would end up on my buddy’s porch, listening to the sound of my heart and convincing myself that I wasn’t dying. In a way, I miss those times. I had real friends. 

As for the sherm? Yes, it was a thing in the 90s. We lived near a major metro and drugs were everywhere.

Hand to God, Momma’s grave, this is a true story.

I was getting a ride home from a friend’s house that was a couple of towns over from mine. In the back with me was a kid who was so shot we used to make fun of him for saying “Guh-Hurt” when he laughed. We had a whole Guh-Hurt burger franchise drawn up for the dude and everything (Shoutout Kasper! Miss you!).

Anyway, our franchisee was super into the drug culture at the time, as were many people I hung out with. He whipped out some smoke in the back seat, and I said fuck it. I figured I could just count heartbeats while staring out of the window or something. In retrospect, I think the burger man always thought I was way more down than I actually was. I am kind of flattered, actually.

I don’t remember how long it took to hit me. All I know is that I demanded the car be pulled over like 10 miles from my house, and I started walking. I was freaking out. My mouth tasted like change smells, and I kept losing myself. One minute I was focused on walking, and the next minute, I was sitting with my legs crossed on the side of the road, flailing my arms.

Every car that drove by me looked like it had somebody I knew in it. I could feel their judging eyes as they drove by. 

It was wild, and I kept losing control.

I made it back to town somehow despite the summer heat and my unsteadiness. I was quite off-balance. So much so that this dude whipped off to the side of the road as soon as he saw me. An older fellow, he offered to let me go to his house and enjoy his air conditioning. What a helpful citizen. Even in my state, I was wise enough to tell this guy to go kick rocks.

Eventually, I made it to the payphones in the center of town, called my dad and said I had “heat stroke,” and took an awkward ride home with him.

This was supposed to be an essay where I find a roundabout way to ask for DMT, but it went off the rails. 

Do drugs give hugs,

JTC