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Wednesday, March 9, 2011

Deeper Into the Rabbit Hole

I was at my local mall today, in line at the Mediterranean place at the food court, and I almost, almost bought a felafel.  In my life right now, I'm struggling to get by.  There's been no steady work for nearly a year and other elements of my existence seem to be crumbling at my feet.  Thinking about felafel, and the absolute value (read: nutritive) for money put me in mind of my struggles of eleven years gone by and what a comfort a felafel had been to me then, a tightly packed healthful delight, presented to me by absolute kindness at a time when I didn't know where my next meal would come from.

I'm not at that particular point in this narrative to allude to more than that.The thought of the similarity between my then and now has brought me back to the cathartic exercise of finally getting the whole, unadulterated mess out to the world to receive my judgement.

I didn't have the felafel anyway.  I got a beef shwarma and let my thoughts continue to drift.  On the top end of things, I'm still posting to outer space, so it doesn't quite matter how loud I scream.  I prefer to believe I will attract a following based on the merit of content I have generated myself, rather than like many others who think promoting someone else's wit (reddit, a lot of that is you) will reflect well on them somehow.  But that ain't going to stop me from lazy attempts to guerrilla market myself.

Which now brings me tho where I left off in tis little tale of mine.  I had just become acquainted with the Irish bachelor party and was about to have my first genuine experience with the drug ecstasy.  To start with, drugs are easy to come by in Amsterdam, particularly in the Red Light District.  Congregating along the foot bridges over the canals are these nefarious characters who will sidle up to you and in hushed tomes pose single word interrogatives.

"Coke? Heroin? Ecstasy?"  Meaning, of course they wish to sell you what they would have you believe are the items mentioned, but often aren't.  The difficult part is getting rid of them once they get their claws into you.  A polite refusal, even an emphatic "No!" will only inspire them to change tack and just outright solicit for money.  My best advice, should you find yourself in the District for a touristy look is to approach these bridges with a solid resolve and pass through without acknowledging these folk, as if they didn't exist.

So when James, one of the party goers, and the Best Man, if I recall claimed to have found a source for some "yokes" as he called them, I being part cynic and part experienced denizen of this neighborhood, was a fair bit skeptical.  This doubt was being challenged by the indefatigable nature of my inner drug lust that James might just have gotten on to something.  So, money changed hands and I was presented with three tiny pink pills that for all the world looked like those inoffensive pills you give to small children for headaches.  No harm in at least trying now that I had spent the money was my logic, and threw one back in my gullet straight away.

Not long after, we all decided to hit a club to go dancing, and during the walk down the main drag of the Damrak, while pulling on various joints being passed around and putting holes in my grey matter with a product sold in sex shops called "poppers" I couldn't actually determine if I was getting anything off that little pink tablet.  So I took another.

As it happened, security at the club we went to didn't want to allow James to get in with the Swiss Army knife he had in his pocket, what he claimed was there neglectfully.  He offered to leave it with the doorman and collect it afterward, but they had no ability to check personal items.  Everyone else had already gone in save James and myself, all his mates had paid their cover and were in for their good time.  Out of mot wanting to see him left out, I nobly offered to care take his knife and meet them all back at the hotel later.  I really didn't mind, as I don't much go in for clubs in the first place.

Having little else to do, I returned to the room, packed my little pipe full and blew my fucking mind, resigning myself to sleep.

I think it was about half an hour later that I woke up with a hard-on that threatened to cause the rest of my body to go anemic.  A single thought, an overwhelming drive that surfaced was the immediate need to get laid.          For once in my life, I was in the right area of town to make that a definitive possibility.  It were not to be, however, as in my addled state, I couldn't recall where I put my trousers.

Even self relief was denied me based on the communal nature of the room I inhabited.  I didn't have to wait too long for some form of stimulation as a Kiwi couple had just arrived, which must have been hell on them as it was the middle of the night and the only person who was somewhat coherent was me, a tweaked out Canadian who couldn't get out of his bed lest he embarrass himself with a fairly obvious erection.  They would have slept, but they were just passing through with an early connecting train the next morning, so they at least humoured my need to interact loquaciously with fellow members of my species.  There followed hours of in depth, witty, urbane and intelligent conversation of which I can not recall a single word.  However, I still have, somewhere among my possessions the fellows business card (he was a body builder and sponsored by a nutrition supplement firm, an airport baggage handler by day) which we turned into a pass for a free collect call should I ever find myself in Christchurch.

They left early in the morning and I never saw them again.  But let me tell you this:  In the interceding hours, I don't think i have ever felt as good (in this case, I should spell "good" with about fourteen O's) as I did.  Nothing was wrong with the Universe, everything chimed in perfect order, and I was at the centre of it all.  I could easily see why people liked the stuff so much, and I was really looking forward to trying it again, only this time, planning out a little better so that I might be fully clothed when the grip to find a sexual outlet overtook me again.  Sadly, that wasn't to happen.  Come back soon and I'll tell you why.

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