It was the Friday marking the start of spring break. I had been confined to my apartment since Thursday morning waiting for a package that still hadn’t come despite my repeated requests for redelivery. At around 16:00 on Thursday, I had gotten fed up from waiting and biked to the post office to ask if the package had even been sent out, but as I stood in line, grew paranoid that the package would arrive at my apartment and I wouldn’t be there to sign for it, and a sweat was accumulating upon my brow as my eyes darted around the room and my legs began shuffling themselves in anxious response to the stagnant line of people ahead, so I biked back before speaking to anyone, sat around for a while longer, but still, no package came. So, at around the same time the next day, I grew impatient yet again, and, realizing the futility of relying on the invalids of the USPS to carry out their responsibilities, formulated a plan to retrieve my package. I biked one last trip to the post office and pretended that I was gay and that my last name changed because I had recently gotten married, but I hadn’t yet gotten around to updating my ID (I needed to show ID to prove I was the owner of the package). This plan worked flawlessly, and as the clerk handed me my long-due envelope of miprocin, I thanked her, then walked out to my bike and snowflakes began to flitter about the air from the homogenously gray sky like celebratory confetti.

At long last, I sat at my desk and tore open the long-awaited envelope. My next job was to separate individual dosages from the tiny plastic bag of 260 mg (I ordered 250 mg, but my vendor usually sprinkles in a little extra for customer satisfaction). The plan for the evening was to commence in vitro chemical research of this curious tryptamine with my friends, JK and AK. It was to be our first time testing miprocin, but AK’s first ever psychedelic experience, so he was to be given a moderate dose of 16mg, while I was to ingest 18 mg, and JK 20 mg (for his ego, even though I have more experience with psychedelics). I spent a good forty minutes testing my scale to be sure I was getting accurate readings, but was dissatisfied with its apparent miscalculations, so I called in the aid of a new friend, Locust, because I was sure he had a reliable scale. As it had turned out, he was using the same scale I was, but his readings were significantly more consistent than mine, so he weighed out all of my miprocin, and was even so kind as to put each dose in a cellulose capsule.




Age: 20.

Body weight: 144 lbs.

Set: glad to be with my friends, relieved that it’s spring break, slight nervousness lurking in the back of my mind that my recent breakup and my ex-girlfriend’s harassing attempts at making me jealous of her already seeing other guys will negatively affect my trip.

Setting: My apartment, JK’s apartment, short walks in between.

Dosage: 18mg miprocin taken orally on an empty stomach.


(T +0:00) It’s 19:35. In my apartment, JK, AK, and I each swallow our capsules and gulp down some water, then walk to JK’s apartment.


(T +0:20) Standing around JK’s living room, I already feel the body sensations reminiscent to those of the initial comeup of psilocin or similar tryptamines. Nobody else is experiencing any noticeable effects yet. It is important to note here that we all dosed on empty stomachs, but I weigh nearly 20 lbs less than my friends.


(T +0:45) One of JK’s housemates, SW, decides he wants to dose tonight also. I give him a 20 mg capsule, but he empties out about 80% of it into a cup of water and drinks it.


(T +0:50) We’re now listening to music in JK’s bedroom. I’m lying on the ridiculous John Cena blanket on his bed staring at the posters on the wall opposite me. I’m picking up melty visual distortions and my body is feeling slightly numb while my mind is feeling slightly dissociated. I feel as if I had bumped some ketamine. I check in with my friends and JK says he is just beginning to feel the initial effects, while AK still feels nothing, and expresses that he doesn’t know what sensations to look for. I assure him that he need not analyze; that he’ll know it when it hits him. As I lie, now staring up at the ceiling, thoughts of my recent breakup slink up on me. These thoughts seem to linger for about a minute before I begin to worry about their consequences on the rest of the night, but I allow my attention to be broken when SW pulls up an old video on his phone of JK walking into a room wearing nothing but underwear with his nuts protruding out and dangling as he walks closer to the camera, arms outstretched, palms facing upward, and shoulders eleveted in shrug-like fashion saying “Hey, what’s going on here?!”


(T +1:10-1:50) We’re listening to some extraordinary music and are all in awe at the rhythmic complexity: the music drifts around the rhythm, but seldom actually falls on it. Our conversations are comprised primarily of laughter, especially between JK and I, as our trips have reached the extremely giggly stage, very much like a mushroom trip. Visual distortion is heavier now: everything is melty, colors are shifted, and close-up objects like the text on my phone are very difficult to focus on. JK notes this difficulty as well while he is trying to find a particular track on his computer, and has also been complaining about nausea. The dog in the Keith Haring “DJ” poster in front of me is animated, almost GIF-like. AK’s comeup effects are slowly developing while SW, becoming giggly, seems to be catching up with him.


(T +2:00-2:30) JK, AK, and I go outside to take a walk around the block. We get about 150 ft from the apartment when JK projectile vomits as we pass a girl sitting on her front steps. “Whoah there, you’re flagged,” she jests. AK and I were barely able to witness it because JK was behind us when it happened, but we then continue walking about 30 more feet, joking about what happened, when JK ducks into an alley to the right of us and spews for a good two minutes. He was having trouble breathing, which made me worried that he might be experiencing an allergic reaction to the drug, but he assures me that he always loses his breath any time he pukes. He uses his hat to wipe the stomach juice off his face, and we make our way around the block to return to his apartment. JK throws his hat into the washing machine and hops right into the shower, feeling dirty all over after throwing up. The rest of us are hanging out in the living room and can hear him talking to himself upstairs as he gets out of the shower and gets dressed. AK and I exchange glances and can’t help but laugh with each other at JK’s developing mania.


(T +2:30-3:00) JK descends the stairs and makes his appearance as a very strange character. He has taken up some personality which drives his vessel for the next hour or so. He is wearing a very old, pair of worn gray track pants and a dark green long-sleeve Henley, looking like a mistreated Russian housewife with his long, damp black hair. AK coins his aesthetic as “Post-Soviet,” which seems to fit perfectly, and JK soon completes the outfit with a horse mask with the snout cut off so that his face is visible. I then declare this new persona as Post-Soviet Horsey Boy.” His antics were beyond amusing, squatting on top of furniture, climbing around, tossing a mango up into the air, maniacally brushing his hair and such.


(T +3:00-3:40) JK and SW’s two friends from out of town just arrived, all dressed up and ready to hit the bars, meanwhile Post-Soviet Horsey Boy is still running amuck. He acts strangely and when he seems to not know what he should be doing I ask him what he’s doing and he suddenly remembers that he prematurely took his hat out of the washer but forgot to start the dryer probably twenty minutes ago. Over the course of the next hour he repeatedly checks on his hat, confused about how to deal with it, clearly experiencing some sort of mental blockage, until I remind him that the night doesn’t revolve around his hat. One of the newly arrived guests, SR, expresses the inappropriate nature of JK’s attire for going to bars. My peak has subsided, and I am now coasting along a social psychedelic buzz. We all share a mango, which I find to be one of the best activities to engage in during a trip. I drink a beer, and SW swallows the capsule containing the remainder of his dose, then he goes to the bar with SR, HS, and two other housemates, against my advice to stay behind and trip with JK, AK, and I, since he’ll be the only one tripping at the bars.


The rest of the night was fun, albeit increasingly uneventful, naturally. We began taking shots of vodka and drinking beer around 1:30 or 2:00 and smoked a small amount of weed. When the guys got back from barhopping at around 4:00, SW told me he’d rather have stayed behind, to which I replied, “Told you so.” HS and I played Mario Kart for a little while after he claimed that he never loses. I beat him about six out of eight races, but he was extremely hammered. I went home at 5:00 and slept like a baby until 10:00, awoken by an alarm so that I could make the train out of town.


Conclusion: 18 mg of miprocin taken orally was very enjoyable, not overwhelming at any one point. It was remarkably similar to a mushroom trip (~2.5-3 g), and I would rate the intensity a ++ on the Shulgin scale. Visual hallucinations did not progress further than color distortion and melting/breathing surfaces. I experienced no uncomfortable body load or nausea, although I can’t speak that way for my dear equine friend. I experienced no thought loops or other such forms of unenjoyable mental impairment. This experience helped immensely in allowing me to move on from my recently ended relationship. I would like to test higher dosages (25, 30, 35 mg) as well as insufflated administration.

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