Wednesday, July 23, 2008

Drugs R Bad. R Good.

One of the joys of going to other countries, aside from all of that food culture architecture music history nonsense is being able to sample a new set of over the counter drugs which for whatever reason have not been deemed as illegal as they have in the united states. While I was in the Czech Republic making films, or rather, attempting to do what amounted to essentially trying to make a film whilst on a giant water raft careening down the side of a glacier as your crew of professors and actors gets too drunk to function and starts beating eachother with paddles and your camera and microphone requires batteries every 3.4 minutes so you must make heroic leaps off the raft and hitchhike into town and then crosscountry ski your way back to your now unmanned out of control raft as it caromes into rocky shards of further cultural incompetence and despise for your chilly american ass, (there continues to be no verb for this sentence about what I did in the Czech republic but I imagine my poor sentence structure has lost you so I'll start again."

Czech Republic, making films, (etcetcetcbitchbitchmoan) I acquired with my good friend and roommate KK (not to be mistaken with KVK, our Czech professor who set a table on fire trying to light absinthe) a good deal of some kind of codeine substance.

We were depressed and overheated and put upon in a rather dramatic way because we had to be here on a Yale program in Europe making films and they weren't woooorking they way that we wanted them to. Damn society. The injustice of it all. It was simply unbearable, we decided, as we sat on our american asses, and so we took lots of codeine and ate lots of chocolate and watched every bootleg DVD of sex and the city we could get our hands on. This sufficed for a few days until some sketchy kid missing a tooth (nice kid actually, little high risk perhaps but nice) found a source for Czech weed. And also Czech cocaine which I did not sample. It looked and smelled like baking powder. But I was wrong, it was not baking powder, because whoever sampled it promptly became victim to high velocity regugitation out our second story window, which apparently burned like magma and made you hallucinate some kind of hideous face demon, not so called because he had a hideous face but because he was attached to your face with all of his sticky dark hideousness. Nothing quite burns in your mind like watching vomit come out the gap in someone's teeth while they claw at their face. My guess is now maybe baking soda and, oh, I don't know, PCP.RatpoisonLSDFormaldehyde-tini cocktail.

Anyways I took this paracete-pamprin something stuff that they recommended in the gas station for menstrual cramps and step one... no more cramps. step two... slightly elated. step three... allegedly I am singing in a fancy restaurant with a napkin on my head because my sweatshirt hood did not constitute as a big enough hat, apparently I really wanted a big big hat. I probably should not have sampled this stuff on an empty stomach, but googling revealed that the opiates might ahve done me in either way. I dont remember being super happy or super sad, just very very pleasantly neutral and having a strong desire to be flat- flat against the floor, flat against the wall, flat against the napkin which served as my hat. I slept well for the first time in this godforsaken hotel because sam will not. WILL NOT stop playing guitar. And playing is one thing but practicing is another thing. And he's an amazing musician blah blah blah but SHUT THE FUCK UP I DON'T WANT TO HEAR YOU PLAY THE SAME GODDAMN 5 CHORDS OVER AND OVER AND OVER AND OVER AND OVER AND OVER AND OVER AND- see in my mind I just smacked him with a 2x4 but in my voice I told him to please go outside, and he reminded me in his sweetest little brother voice that I was typing until late last night and this should not be different. But it is. Because when I am typing I am typing. And when he is playing he is KILLING EVERY OUNCE OF JOY AND CREATIVITY THAT RESIDES IN MY BRAIN AS ALL THE ANGER MOLECULES BUST DOWN THEIR HAPPY LITTLE DOORS AND START BASHING THE JOY AND CREATIVITY AND SANITY WITH 2x4s. Neurological 2x4s. Metaphorical 2x4s, but 2x4s nonetheless. Umm... excuse me for a moment while I go get a fucking... while I go take a lovely stroll on the beach.

Where I will get a huge fucking 2x4.


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