Dumpstercore

The encounter had turned out infinitely better than we could have even hoped. We'd experienced a moment of sheer, hungover terror - fear that we'd fall under the shoe of authority. Were these city workers coming to arrest us? Quite the opposite - instead, they'd passed onto us a packet of so-called MDMA.

We bee-lined towards the nearest dumpster and hopped inside to test the empathogenic waters. Oh, sweet dumpsters - they were little pieces of Home scattered across every city in the country! We settled back into our cardboard recliners and whipped out the drugs.

Inherently drug addicted fiends, as we were, there was much chattering of "Hurry! Where's the lighter? Where's the tinfoil?" (Yes, we smoke our MDMA. If nothing else, it's a method to ensure that we knew what we were smoking, and exactly how strong it was, without having to risk ingesting massive amounts, or wasting an entire day slowly increasing dosage.)

It's a damn good thing we chose to do this. Many people regard smoking any drug off of tinfoil to be in the style of doing drugs like junkies, but many people are stupid. As Scrib flicked the lighter, casting the cardboard around us and our faces into a romantic orange gelow, the "MDMA" began to bubble and turn black. This was our first uh-oh moment. MDMA is supposed to turn into a bloody crimson puddle before vaporizing.

The second uh-oh moment was Scrib's spluttering cough and the following facial expression, reminiscent of one who had just been force-fed their own feces.

"Fuck, that's digusting."

"What is it?"

"I dunno, yet."

As he waited for the effects to settle in, I grabbed the foil, roasted a toke myself, retched, made a similar facial expression as Scrib, and quickly passed the foil to Fernweh.

There's some sense of substance

to substance abuse;

it's a reason to peruse

different sections of truth.

Life's too subjective

not to smoke new perspectives.

I tried to trick myself into feeling a placebo effect, I tried to pretend that what I felt was reminiscent of MDMA, but it certainly wasn't. There was no mind-boggling relaxation, there was no overwhelming sense of appreciation for the mundane, no love for the unlovable. Instead, my muscles had tightened, a sheen of static had subtly settled over my brain and I felt the budding onset of a panic attack. This ain't no MDMA. It was some kind of stimulant - a shitty one, at best - but not MDMA.

Fernweh and Scrib passed the substance back and forth back and forth while I reclined onto my cardboard and tried to combat the anxiety. I saw no reason to continue smoking such a hurtin' substance, so I spent the rest of the toke session identifying the drug. I came to the conclusion that it was speed, not methamphetamine (a drug that, while labelled with a terrible stigma for a good reason, is actually enjoyable when consumed) but amphetamine, which is tremendously similar to methamphetamine in the way that it entails ALL the negative effects with NONE of the positive effects.

Great. I needed beer to combat this anxiety. Once the two had finished smoking, we hopped out of the dumpster and into the day which now seemed excessively bright to our dilated pupils. There was only one thing to do now: hit the liquor store.