A Midnight Swim to the Edge of Freedom

It was New Years Eve 2011. That year was fucking horrible and riddled with a string of heart ache and masochistic self exploration. Though I had certainly learned some valuable life lessons, I was ready to bend over and have that wretched year kiss my sweet ass goodbye.

So Gabs and I hit the Beermuda Triangle just wreaking of trouble. We had already ripped through a fifth of Jameson before we finished putting on our makeup. She looked stunning with a fistful of fire red hair and her awesome tits just spilling out of her cinched corset.  I went for a more "black magic" affect with a questionably short sequin skirt, lacey stockings, and a flapper mid drift that's tassels landed right over my belly button. 

I decided to hop on an internet dating site when we reached the bar and see if I could get any fish to bite. No fish took the bait, just one dog. His name was Conner, but his mother should have named him Charles, or maybe just "Dick" would have sufficed. The only thing he did right was buy me three full glasses of whiskey so that I wouldn't have to wait in line if I decided to throw the second one in his face. He felt me up under the table for twenty minutes before I politely excused myself. By the time I returned he looked like he was ready to explore my girlfriend's ear canal with his tongue and was trying to rope us both into a threesome. "Fat chance, creep!" The clock struck midnight and we knew if we had any hope of turning our night around we were going to have to make a move. 

We ended up at a house party in southeast where we linked up with some older dudes and figured we'd have a pretty good chance of scoring some decent dope if we stuck around. My hot stripper friend then appeared like the angel she is and I knew things were about to get fun. Shelly elects her all business designated driver to chauffeur all of our drunk asses to a warehouse rave. It's three am before the first bag of blow comes out. Shelly and I tote the cooler full of jungle juice down a wicked gravel hill with astounding grace, considering the fact that our skinny ankles were wobbling in our stripper heels like wheels with no axles. Some hippies are circled around a trash can fire and I spot my designer drug dealer! Even though it's dark as fuck, I know that satin floral cape anywhere. I run up to him and give an enthusiastic attack hug.

"Jazzy! I love you! Give me drugs!"

"What do you want? Acid? Boomers? Molly? Extascy? 2Ci? 2CB? Blow?"

I laugh, "All of the above."

He reaches into his bag,

"I'm kidding, just give me some molly and 2CB, I'm sure that will be more than enough to get me spun."

I put the hit on my tongue and turn to one of the guys.

"You better take care of me!"

He nods in agreement.

Upstairs the party is going hard in full force. We stumble up a flight of rickety urine stained stairs and are greeted by something half human-half acid tripping zombie. But who am I to judge? My entire posse can barely talk we're so fucked up. We decide to split up and see if there are any more drugs for sale. Aaron leads us into a room made entirely out of clear plastic. It is apparent that during the day this space is used for making amazing useless art out of refurbished trash. I take a couple key bumps to even out my stomach and find a filthy couch to collect my thoughts on. One of the house party guys sits down with me and I can hear him breathing harder than I'm thinking.

We're both staring out into a sea of mattresses on the floor where everyone is either staring at the ceiling or riding what I like to call the "tickle train." The tickle train is where three or more people sit down in front of each other and alternate between giving back rubs and tickling the back of your neck with feathers while you're rolling. This was a tradition that has presumably been passed down through generations of acid tripping nudists. I am fascinated as I stare out at this strange tribe of people that seem to have been raised by a wild pack of stuffed animals. The smell in the air is so sweaty and putrid though that it is literally moments away from guiding my entire trip for me, and everything is starting to look more and more like trash flavored trash. I tell guy that I need to get some air and I make a run for my life. I don't make it very far though before I get lost in the small corridor that is filled with life size paper mâché mushrooms covered in black light paint. They are perfectly arranged so that when you're on drugs you immediately think you've time traveled into Absolem's magic garden. I clumsily knock into one mushroom and it falls over, creating a soul crushing domino effect. The whole magic garden is ruined. 

Reality did not seem tangible. All the colors in the room seemed distorted, almost as though they were evaporating and expanding at the same time. The walls were dancing and the music was starting to make my feet hurt. The only thing separating me from the twenty degree cement floor was a pair of pantyhose. I sat there totally secluded, despite the room full of candy ravers that was twenty feet behind me. I laid there completely paralyzed by my breath until I was finally rescued from my chattering jaw and the weight of the world. He takes my hand and even though I can't read minds, his is so clearly saying "lets go home."

On the drive I marveled at the world with a new set of eyes. The sun is just starting to rise and I can barely handle it. I break down crying. 

"What's wrong?" he asks me.

"It's so beautiful....it is crushing me!" I whimper with tears in my eyes.

"Yeah, this is heavy."

I imagine the beauty of these blood orange clouds suffocating me, it's like they are standing directly on top of my chest! I imagined my body as a piece of scrap stained glass, being thrown up into the air and then suddenly crashing into a million pieces. I thought about whether or not it would hurt when someone swept me all up, or if anyone would bother at all.

The twenty minute drive felt like crossing an ocean. When we arrived "home" I was practically having an out of body experience. The Berber carpet looked like beach sand, and felt like it too in between my toes. Everything was now so much warmer than I remember it being a half an hour ago. My mom always told me, "life changes fast" and I wonder if this is what she meant. One minute you're all alone on the cold cement floor and thirty minutes later you're holding hands with a stranger who loves you on a warm sunny beach that is actually a living room?

We take the bag of molly, blow, and the last little bit of 2CB out of our pockets and dump it in one pile on a paperback book. Shelly stirs it together with her credit card and lays out five equal rails, without prejudice. We all sniff up the last bit of fun and wish each other a happy new year. 

Eventually, around ten in the morning, I wander off into the house to find a quiet bed. I help myself to my preferred bedtime attire- the obligatory track suit bottoms and of course the coolest t-shirt I could find. I have no idea whose bed this belongs to, nor who's clothes I am wearing. All I know is whoever it may be, he is perfect. 

He is obviously more like a God, judging by the cloud that he calls a bed. I bring the down feathered blanket over my head and wait. Soon, he appears, looking as fucked up as my childhood. He slams down next to me and starts running his hands through my hair. I let him touch my back and I can tell he is down right fascinated by how soft my skin is compared to how gritty all the drugs are making us feel. We laid next to each other talking & mimicking each others breathing patterns, huge fresh breaths in, followed by controlled soothing exhales. In the hours that passed I confessed my profession as a pot dealer, while he confessed his strong desire yet inability to fuck me, and the sun got higher and higher. After what seemed like an eternity of begging I finally convinced him to order me a pizza. 

"What do you want on your pizza?"

"Extra cheese, extra grease."

We never got that pizza though. We fell asleep, blurred & bewildered. When I awoke to Gabs hovering over me I got a lick of reality. 

"Can you give me a ride home?"

I take a moment to assess if I am capable of such a feat, wonder if I'm still drunk and/or tripping balls, and answer with a confident yet unenthusiastic "yes."

I turn to my strange new love and tell him, "I will be in touch, but until then I'm holding the shirt ransom."