The Altered Man’s Journal, Pt. 5

Took the Volvo wagon up to Cambridge, Mass., lugging 96 whippits (with canister and balloons, of course), 200 mg of 4-hyroxy-N-methyl-N-isopropyltryptamine a.k.a. 4-HO-MiPT a.k.a. miprocin, and a placeboid CNS electrification of ecstatic suspense of what incessant debauchery lay in store for me over the next few days, despite the absence of caffeine or any other stimulant in my system. The hypnotic highway drive totaled ~5.5 hours, the dark ink of night seeping across the white sheet of day, my stomach was feeling empty enough to be digesting its own acid, and my bladder was about ready to call it quits, so I pulled off I-84 upon spotting an exit sign adorned by the infamous golden arches and made my way to the nearest McDick’s where I took my dick for a piss and ordered myself a McDank, which is a McChicken stuffed inside a McDouble. Tasted like factory farming and deforestation. The cost in the moment was only $2.39, cheap enough for me to ignore the sickening repercussions of the fast food industry’s destructive existence of which my partaking or lack thereof makes absolutely no fucking difference – the immortal bastards. . . They’ve created a system that already produces so much waste so cheaply that it’s impervious to any realistic-scale boycott.

I made the hike up to Cambridge to visit a dear friend whom I met at UVM two blood moons ago on a windy night when everyone was out and about in the late hours to catch the wondrous bloody show in the sky, and I was gettin weird on 4-Acetoxy-N,N-dimethyltryptamine a.k.a. 4-AcO-DMT a.k.a. a dimethyltryptamine with an acetoxy group attached to the phenyl ring at the 4 position a.k.a. psilacetin. My first night in Cambridge was spent indulging in nitrous balloons with my dear friend and three of his local friends, one of whom traded me 2.5 mg of alprazolam, 20 mg of MXE, and 24 mg of 3-MeO-PCE for all the balloons I gave him (this guy is a total diss-jockey and had never tried nitrous prior to my arrival, so he was grateful to me for expanding his dissociative repertoire), and sorry or you’re welcome for not obnoxiously rattling off more chemical synonyms. The first couple times amused me, which I think is the only reason I do this in the first place, but at this point it would just be pure fucking exhaustion.

The next day, my dear friend and I each dosed about 20 mg of miprocin and took a psychedelically disorienting subway ride into downtown Boston. The screeching and rattling of the train were the sort of sounds you can’t hear anywhere else; just this mammoth mass of under-lubricated steel grinding through underground corridors; a fucking big metal worm with passengers all diverting their line of sight away from each other – except for me, so I got to watch all of them as the miprocin began to take hold and their facial features began to drift together and apart, together and apart, like sloppy rotoscope. The floor of the train was black and off-white paint swirling around each other heterogeneously, and the chairs’ upholstery was royal blue with fiery-colored sprinkles; this aesthetic made for a fun comeup.

The subway ride took us into the heart of Boston, where we surfaced for some fresh air and a stroll around Boston Common before delving back underground for the next train to the Museum of Fine Arts, where we spent the near-entirety of our trip viewing mind-blowing artwork, naturally. I highly recommend tripping at the MFA. Very inspirational stuff.

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