I rode my bike to the town Walmart, and began my search for a can of air duster. I had never seen one before, and mistakenly took a bottle of spray paint outside. I called him up, told him the name of the product, and he said "no, that won't do. The can is white, with four different colors on it and blatantly says air duster. You can't miss it. Has a straw attached and everything." That was pretty plain English to me. I made my way into the store, pocketed it (not proud of that) and left without paying; damn, I'm a greasy freak. I met him in the mall parking lot, and, although I was sketched about trying the stuff and worried that people would see me, he assured me that not only was it legal, but it was also awesome as hell.
"Well, why not?" I said. "I mean, if a thing's worth doing, it's worth doing right. This is the American Dream in action." I hit the can, everything got swirly, and the whole world seemed to go numb and bend to my euphoric will. He snatched it up, took three or four long hits, and breathed out a low-voiced, "duuuuuuuudddeeee, everything looks like final fantasy right now." I never hallucinated from the stuff to that degree, but I did see little people walking around the cars in the lot, and heard that familiar whomp-whomp-whomp sound. As I continued inhaling, this weird song started going through my head that went something like "oh-eeh-eeh-hah-eeh-oh-hah." That was entertaining. Then, something hit me like a can of tuna and bricks - I was being watched. Maybe I was just paranoid, but the people pulling into the parking lot must have assuredly saw us both, just lying on the ground, taking in copious amounts of lung-bleeding air.
"We have to get out here, man. They're watching us," I said, scratching at my bug-filled skin. He assented, and we both made our way to a walled-in area near a local hotel. We were near what I assumed was a dumpster, still putting holes in our brains. I took the can, held it sideways, and, to my dismay, it iced on me. Nasty white-blue fluid slushed into my mouth; it was the worst taste I've ever experienced. I started feeling nauseous, and opened the "dumpster" in case of vomit. It was not a dumpster. It was a grease vat. That was it, my dear friends; I contributed my stomach's contents to that vat, and slumped over on the ground, still tripping like a mammoth.
"I've gotta go, man," I said, idiotically stuffing the dust-can into my backpack and mounting my bike. "I'll be late if I don't." Late for what, I'm still not quite sure, but I was absolutely certain that I would be judged in Perdition if I didn't retreat. The ride was a great sojourn across town, at least three miles of hilly landscape that tested my stoned out will. It was painful, but I made it home, collapsing on my apartment bed. I didn't think I'd ever come down from this, and I felt just plain stupid - I literally couldn't think. And the idea terrified me. That didn't stop me from doing the stuff repeatedly until I fell into a forced coma, however.
The hangover from the dust isn't pleasant. You can't concentrate, and you feel like a total zombie; complete lack of control. I still don't know what parts of my brain I deleted in these depths of insanity. I really shouldn't, though. I mean... those cells are fucking gone, right?
|Clean Safe? What an ironic name...|