A friend of mine just got back to the campus from Utah, where she spent the weekend. She proceeded to tell me at length about the drugs she had done. An 8-ball, about 200 mg of OC (oxycotton, aka synthetic heroin, in pill form), a couple of rolls, and thorough drinking to end off the weekend as a drunk and complaining bitch. She also brought some Adderall to help her make up for study time lost. She has midterms starting tomorrow, good call.
Apparenlty the blow in Utah is good, a lot better than what pretencious offspring of Senators on the East Coast can manage to get. The Extasy (aka rolls) were good too, shame she didn't bring any back. OC she did bring back, hopefully disposing of it for profit. This Saturday she plans on doing some with me. Being a college student (tuition around 45 000 a year), i obviously can't afford drugs, especially good ones, so it helps to have friends who are only to happy to introduce you to new experiences. I'll write about the effects after I try it. All in all, she seemed to have a good time, at least her style of good time.
That style of fun being raving. A cultural phenomenon popular everywhere mood enhancing drugs, repetitive electronic music and large spaces are available. The state of Utah seems almost too perfect for this. I hate raves, and I hate ravers.
It started a few months ago, when I first became closely acquainted with them. I was walking down Hotel street, through the heart of night-time Chinatown of Honolulu. I ran into a friend of mine who worked in a head shop (the ones that sell "tobacco" paraphernalia). It was nighttime, and I had no plans except to find trouble. We headed to the head shop, to hang out in the back room. I bought Salvia, something I've been meaning to try for a while. We smoked some, and about three seconds after my last hit, the music that was playing in the background seemed to warp inwards. The clean guitar sound became electronic and repetitive, and the drum part resonated with my heartbeat resonating through my skull. The walls leaned a little to the left, as if the screen in my head onto which reality is projected shifted, dislodging one corner, warping the image of the world. A burning sensation flushed through my veins, and everything suddenly became extremely funny. Think of your typical "wow, I am so.... what was that? ... oh yeah, man... stoned! I'm so stoned!" moment. That seemed to be a pretty good beginning for the evening. My friend, a short Asian girl whom I can only describe as "squat" and I talked about her removed tattoo for a while. I have no recollection of the conversation, as I mostly just nodded in response to the noises she made. By this point recognizing speech was a power I did not possess. We smoked a joint, and headed to a party she was telling me about earlier. In the midst of billowing smoke and bright lights I realized that I was at a rave. As more and more people came in, I noted a curious pattern in the crowd. Everyone here seemed to be insecure. It was as if someone took the leader-follower dichotomy, and severed the leader aspect from this crowd. Most of the kids were around twenty, nervously stepping back and forth, spinning glow sticks and looking around cautiously as if looking for someone to latch on to. At this point I was very much stoned. I sat down by the wall and looked around. In about an hour the place was packed, but the apprehensive vibe of the crowd never changed. The night seemed to be headed for a long, repetitive shuffle-step of awkward insecurity personified. I left the squat girl, and headed to open air of a beautiful Hawaiian night.
Walking around the electrified slum of Chinatown at midnight seemed far more entertaining than the place I left. After literally thirty seconds, another friend of mine ran up and jumped on me. Her name is Morgan, and she is a very cute Hawaii Pacific U student who seems to always take the conversation into a story which would depict her as a slut. I still haven't figured out if she was a legitimate nympho, or just an insecure college girl. Perhaps a bit of both. Immediately, I found out the reason for such an enthusiastic greeting. A deranged Capoiera instructor was rather crassly trying to hit on her (I couldn't make this shit up). I walked her up a couple of blocks, and Morgan invited me to a party. Apparently this party was supposed to be amazing, and my high has already started wearing to wear off. As Irony would have it, I wound up walking into the same party I left half an hour ago. The thumping of the music was louder, and the people seemed even more insecure, with a touch of deuche added in for flavour. I left immediately, deciding to chalk the night up as a learning experience, and walked the couple miles back to my house accompanied by the buzzing of grungy streetlights. I finished the night smoking salvia, drinking, and listening to the Strokes. Altogether, a much better experience than bumping into x-ed up kids with glow sticks. Ever since then, the very thought of a rave makes me feel exhausted. Maybe I just haven't been to a good one, or done enough drugs at one. Time will tell.
My raver friend, however, is desperately struggling to study for her midterms, while recovering from a hangover. Just another piece of evidence in the case against raves and ravers.
What a thoroughly anticlimactic waste of time.