the hash cakes and the horrors

Like most things that turn out to be very bad ideas once they’ve been oxidised by contact with reality, it seemed like a good idea at the time. My friend, sinking on a raft of poorly understood, half heartedly researched and not especially glamorous syndromes, was looking into alternative ways to cope with the attendant pain, fatigue and general shittiness and I thought giving her some illegal drugs might be a sensible move. So I did. Originally, I’d intended crafting some amazing cannabis infused honey, but tben I couldn’t be arsed and just ended up chucking quarter of an ounce of decarboxylated hash into a packet of brownie mix. Obviously, I tested the finished product – which was overcooked and both stank and tasted of hash much more than it did of chocolate – fairly thoroughly and found that, despite the difficulty involved in gagging the stuff down, it performed entirely as anticipated. When my friend came round the next day she valiantly scoffed half a brownie with a coffee then went home for an afternoon of pain-free amusement.

Text received at 14.42 – Oooh – those brownies are very good đŸ™‚

Text received at 15:08 – Can you come round please?

When I got there, her flat was full of ants and dragons and she was sitting on her bed staring at them and gibbering softly, doing that thing that people having awful trips do where they close their eyes against the horrors then have to open them again to try to escape the horrors running in the other direction. There’s no escape. Once the restraint bar’s locked down you just have to hold on and wait til the ride’s finished – but this information resides in a part of the brain that gets shut down the minute things start getting cosmic. I had a look around and found a few Diazepam which I gave her along with a glass of water. She was shaking so badly it looked like she was trying to throw the tablets up her nose but she eventually managed to swallow them and instantaneously pronounced herself on the road to lucidity. Five minutes later she told me she was dying and was sick in a bucket. I tried divining her future in the watery vomit. No sign of the Diazepam, but nothing that looked like semi digested brownie either. I forecast several more hours of this.

“Don’t worry.” I told her, “This’ll all be over soon.”

Soon or not soon were now concepts lying absolutely fucked up in the wreckage. It wouldn’t be over soon, but even if it was, this would still feel like forever.

“I’m dying.”

“You’re not dying. Nobody has ever died from eating a pot brownie. ”

“I am.”

“I know you feel like you are – but if we went to Amsterdam now I guarantee we could find 100 British tourists who are just as sure as you are that they’re dying. And none of them are.”

“I am.”

She kept trying to brush things away from her face – ants, moths, words, the horror.

“I need to go to hospital.”

“You don’t. If you go to hospital you’re just going to feel like this, in a hospital, surrounded by frowning strangers. You’re doing great.”

“I’m dying.”

“No – no, you’re not dying. You’re doing…great.”

Time passed. I’d had about eight times the amount she’d had – what a bell end – and I began to wonder if at any moment I might begin to tilt towards her and end up agreeing with her about the dissolving universe. At one point, a voice on the radio very crisply and clearly announced: “So you’ll be next.” Which was a tad unnerving. But I wasn’t, and an hour later everyone was back to as normal as they get round here and they all lived happily ever after the end



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