1. heroic dose
A very large quantity of hallucinogenic substance, that, when ingested, results in a powerful and often life-changing trip.
I was at a psytrance festival in Hungary called SUN. I took way to much acid (about 3-5k mcgs or even more), i just drank it like water and gave away all my money and acid (worth about €1k), because i wanted to leave the physical-material realm and only live as spirit.
So i continued to run around butt naked and had the most intense almost never ending trip:
I became a dog; a stone fossil of the last human; i talked with alien life forms; i was a kobold hiding in the shadows; became Jesus, Hitler, a god that juggled with star systems; the last Jew; i experienced being cremated as a Jew inside a German combustion engine; i was a skull collecting mass murderer; i layed in the bushes and became one with Gaia; i flew with the light of a star to infinity in order to colonize it by pure thought; i lived many different past lifes and i experienced why my brother is my brother, because we hated us in an earlier life and i killed him/or he killed me and that’s why we love each other so much in our present lifes… and much more i don’t remember at the moment.
The festival already ended and i wandered into the forrest for 3 days, still tripping hardcore. I only remember fragments of this episode, but i followed some lights until i got back to the area. When i came back I was totally anxious and thought for a couple of days everyone was out to kill me in some sort of ritual.
Then i collected myself for a couple of days with the help of some organizers and workers who gave me food and clothes (because i had nothing left at all, 1500km away from home), helped them collect trash and stuff until i got a lift to the embassy in Budapest from which i called home and got money to get a train ticket back home.
It was heaven and hell and everything beyond.
edit: i just wanted to add, this whole thing was very immature, dumb and dangerous. My feet were bloody open from dacning and walking barefoot. It was so incredible mentally exhausting that i almost got insane. I thought i died and was in everlasting purgatory. For times i just wanted to die and be released. So please don’t get inspired by this, because another person with another mental characteristics could eventually not do this without serious mental or physical consequences or even worse…
Of all the things I have ever read, all the images I have ever seen, all the stories I have heard – nothing has affected me as reading this account of someone getting stuck between the platform of the subway and the subway car:
When I went to work for a steel company in the mid 90′s we got the lesson of not messing with train cars from an old timer that had been at the mill for decades.
He had pictures and a story. The guy that had gotten coupled, stuck in the couplers of two connecting train cars, asked that pictures be taken and his mistake be used as an example for future workers. So the old timer had some pretty intense pictures.
The first thing they do is set up a tent around you. Not a big tent, but enough to give you privacy, because as soon as those cars are uncoupled, you’re dead. They tarp off the bottom of the coupler, so that you don’t get the image that you’re talking to just a torso. They ask who you want to see before you die, if you have a wife, a priest, co-workers or anyone else that you want to say your last words to. They also get a doctor on-site to administer drugs and final care to you. All of this happens very quickly, because you don’t have a ton of time, but it is a slow death. The old timer had pictures of the guy coupled, the tent being set up, the coupler being tarped, pictures of the wife entering in tears, pictures of the wife leaving in tears and pictures of what happened after the guy was uncoupled. The one that got me was the picture of his kids talking to him through the tent side, he wanted to tell his kids he loved them one last time, but didn’t want them to see him in that condition.
It is not a user friendly experience. This guy got caught between the couplers because he thought he could beat a slow moving train car and against one of the train-worker’s warnings, he gave it a shot anyway. He lost. When backing up a train with multiple cars, the cars can gain or lose speed quickly because couplers are not a rigid connection. It just so happened that he got in the middle just as the cars picked up a bit of speed, he hesitated and that was that.
After you say your goodbyes, and in this instance, the doctor loaded the guy up with a bunch of morphine (or pain killers) and they uncoupled the train, at which point every internal organ that was where it was supposed to be when the train was coupled, slid out and onto the ground and half a torso dropped out. The old timer had pictures of it all, and during this class, everyone was either white as a ghost or dry heaving. It was silent and everyone was just listening to this older guy talk about losing his friend. The class did it’s job. I’d hear the train bells and immediately be aware of where the train was, what it was doing and what my proximity was to train tracks. Even to this day, I give trains plenty of respect and the sounds of train bells make a shiver run up my spine. Even though everyone went through this class, someone still got coupled in the time that I was working there. I didn’t see anything but the white tent, but knew exactly what was going on.
Working in a steel mill made me also realize that everything in a steel mill can maim or kill you almost instantly. The mills themselves, the furnaces, the trains, the coiled steel, the slabs, the overhead gantries, none of them care about you. If you’re in the wrong place at the wrong time, they’ll just continue doing what they’re supposed to do, they’ll just maul you in the process. – suicide_and_again
Related Video: NY Cop talks about the horror of people getting stuck between a platform and the train (story starts @ 1:50)
Related Link: Dude Gets Stuck Between Subway Platform And The Train
I was addicted to meth for a few years (well, I’ll forever be addicted to it; I have absolutely no control when it comes to amphetamines). It started out wonderfully (like any drug) and was even responsible for getting me a couple great paying day jobs (gotta love the motivation meth provides; if you can harness it) and even a promotion! Eventually my usage increased to the point that I felt I should offset my costs so I started dealing too.
My girl at the time was a waitress so I used her and a couple of her hotter waitress friends to sell my product to both customers as well as most of the other staff (turns out the food industry is LOADED with users, DUH!). After a few months, the demand began to get so high I was having trouble keeping up with it. My regular hookup flat-out admitted that He would not be able to keep up with my demand (He had a regular job too and this was nothing more than fun for him) so He pointed me to another guy who He thought might be of some assistance. That is when shit began to get real serious. I quit my day job as I no longer wanted to go (or even needed to).
Things continued to go very well as I continued to expand my business of using waitresses to sell product (high turnover means waitresses are constantly changing locations, thus getting a new customer base). It worked out beautifully as we were effectively a delivery service. Nobody was ever coming to my house so there never appeared to be any suspicious activity. Practically a perfect system.
At this point my usage had been pretty heavy for a while (I was up to 10g a day on average, or about $750) and it had begun to take it’s toll. I was only sleeping a couple of hours a week (more like taking fitful naps) and that was catching up (I had been doing it for over 2 years now). I was angry and psychotic pretty much all the time. It was destroying relationships and I truly did not give a single fuck. I began to see that my inability to control it was destroying everything around me. Being in the throws of addiction is…. a complex thing. I was fully aware that I was an addict, that it was taking it’s toll and would almost certainly eventually kill me. I did not care. I mean I really, truly did not care. Total apathy. All that matters is the drug; if you can get that, then everything else is less important or can be fixed after..
Many years ago, when I was in high school, I worked at a movie theater. Allow me to preface the story by saying that I pride myself on my ability to accomplish tasks that I find unpleasant. My parents own several section 8 rental properties around Youngstown, and I had been roped into innumerable “This house is a mess, we’re not paying anyone to clean it, we feed you, here’s a bucket, get started” adventures in my short life. I had dealt with festering diapers left in the open air for months in summer, rotten food, spoiled milk, animal corpses, used hypodermics, anything you could imagine. Cleaning the grease trap in the concession area did not phase me. I was woefully unprepared this day.
I arrived in my polo shirt and slacks through the lobby entrance as some of the theaters were letting out. I could tell immediately something was amiss. One of the managers had put the caution tape we normally used to mark defective chairs over the door to the women’s restroom, and was standing in front of the door looking worried. When a patron would try to enter, the manager would stop them, nod apologetically, make a brief “mia culpa” gesture with her hands, and usher them away. When she saw that I had arrived, her eyes immediately brightened and she waved emphatically for me to come over.
I was introduced to everything through one friend, I’ll call him Theo. Before him, I was a good kid. Straight As, never skipped school, didn’t even smoke cigarettes. He was a goth punk, started off stalking me and somehow we became best friends as a result. He was my first real friend, and in those days… he was a damn good friend. He took care of me. He cared. He was kind, generous, and just the greatest guy in the world. We started drugs at about the same time. Our first drug was LSD. Never did it often, though. Stuck with pot for years and years.
Eventually, we were introduced to meth. It started out as something we did rarely, but eventually it overtook everything. Whenever we hung out, we got high. The first three years, I was high every other week. The last two, I was high every day, except for when I would crash after being up for five days straight.
I had a job overnight stocking, and my job performance improved due to the meth. No exhaustion, no need for breaks, easily occupied with mundane tasks.
In the end, what lead me to quit was a moment of clarity. When I took a look at my situation. I used to be a straight As kid, with a future. Now I was a high school drop out, working at a dead end job where I never spoke to anyone, and at that moment I was sitting in a trailer with five other filthy guys. One was missing an eye, telling me about how he sucked dick in jail. The other was a gay man who had his relationship destroyed by meth, and he was busy picking at a sore on his forehead that had grown to the size of a half dollar. No one had bathed in days. Everyone had been up for days on end. There was a bunny that someone had caught decaying in the back room, under the bed. Where the fuck was I? What the fuck was I doing there?
Context is childbirth is the most pain any human will ever feel :
Bullshit dude, bullshit. I once ate a tray of 24 assorted muffins: blueberry, lemon poppy-seed, cranberry apple, banana nut, even bran. Large muffins too, like you’d buy at the bakery, not grocery store mini-muffins. I ate the first five or six out of hunger, and the next dozen I can only attribute to gluttony, but the last half dozen were devoured by determination alone. A part of me wanted to stop – I was full, the muffins had become repulsive, and there was a disconcerting pressure in my chest. The other, stronger part of me knew that if I gave up on that muffin platter I would admit limitation. A limited man can rationalize his every weakness, turn away from every challenge, live his life within the narrow confines of comfort; that’s not how I live my life. But I digress. It took six days for my bowels to move, and when they did I shat a monolithic muffin block so wide it could not be flushed, so dense it would not dissolve with repeated flushing, and so heavy it took two hands to lift. The measure of anxiety, pain, pride and love is indescribable, so don’t tell me I don’t understand childbirth – thenewaddition
All in all, it hadn’t been a good day. Bad traffic, a malfunctioning computer, incompetent coworkers and a sore back all made me a seething cauldron of rage. But more importantly for this story, it had been over forty-eight hours since I’d last taken a dump. I’d tried to jumpstart the process, beginning my day with a bowl of bowel-cleansing fiber cereal, following it with six cups of coffee at work, and adding a bean-laden lunch at Taco Bell. As I was returning home from work, my insides let me know with subtle rumbles and the emission of the occasional tiny fart that Big Things would be happening soon. Alas, I had to stop at the mall to go Christmas shopping. I completed this task, and as I was walking past the stores on my way back to the car, I noticed a large sale sign proclaiming, “Everything Must Go!” This was prophetic, for my colon informed me with a sudden violent cramp and a wet, squeaky fart that everything was indeed about to go. I hurried to the mall bathrooms. I surveyed the five stalls, which I have numbered 1 through 5 for your convenience:
2.Clean, but Bathroom Protocol forbids its use, as it’s next to the occupied one.
3.Poo on seat.
4.Poo and toilet paper in bowl, unidentifiable liquid splattered on seat.
5.No toilet paper, no stall door, unidentifiable sticky object near base of toilet.
Clearly, it had to be Stall #2. I trudged back, entered, dropped trousers and sat down. I’m normally a fairly Shameful Sh1tter. I wasn’t happy about being next to the occupied stall, but Big Things were afoot.
I was just getting ready to bear down when all of a sudden the sweet sounds of Beethoven came from next door, followed by a fumbling, and then the sound of a voice answering the ringing phone. As usual for a cell phone conversation, the voice was exactly 8 dB louder than it needed to be. Out of Shameful habit, my sphincter slammed shut. The inane conversation went on and on. Mr. Sh1tter was blathering to Mrs. Sh1tter about the sh1tty day he had. I sat there, cramping and miserable, waiting for him to finish. As the loud conversation dragged on, I became angrier and angrier, thinking that I, too, had a crappy day, but I was too polite to yak about in public. My bowels let me know in no uncertain terms that if I didn’t get crapping soon, my day would be getting even crappier.
So I began freaking out because the pain was just unbearable. I thought I had to go to the emergency room because I just couldn’t figure out a way to take it out that wouldn’t hurt. So I did the next best thing: went on Google for answers. The best thing I found was putting baby oil to make the release easier but that didn’t help. I don’t think any of the links had to do with foreskin stuck in the slider. I couldn’t zip down because the skin was there and the zipper was zipped at the bottom and zipping up was just making it worse. So I had to do the most embarrassing thing, but I didn’t care at the moment, I went to tell my father. I took the picture before going to tell him. I thought it would be less embarrassing to show him the picture, even though the real thing would be in front of him. I buttoned my pants and went to their room. I showed him and he asked the same question all of you asked. He told me to show him so I did. He tried doing the same thing I had tried, zipping up and down. I yelled, my face was red, I felt hot and my heart was beating quickly. The pain was intense. My dad gets frustrated very easily and after trying with no avail and me squirming with pain he said he couldn’t do anything with me moving around and that I might just had to go the emergency room, which was the one thing I didn’t want to hear. After a while he had a bright idea. He left the room and came back with a razor blade. My first reaction was to yell, “What are you going to do with that?” He told me to hold the zipper and he cut around the area were the slider was. So now the section that was attached to the slider and my foreskin was free from my jeans. He then pulled the slider down and it came off the zipper. I then pulled my foreskin out of the slider and that was it, it was free. I had minor cuts but it did bruise and teeth markings (from the zipper) were visible. I hope that made sense of how he did it.