Acid Eater

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Humor  |  House: Booksie Classic

Submitted: October 26, 2016

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Submitted: October 26, 2016

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ACID EATER

A MICROCOSM BY GREG KLEPPER

 

Hallucinations end in collision.   Similar to the way a bubble can burst from even the gentlest touch, I find myself thrown outward into the suck.  I used to only trip on Tuesdays.

 

I look around at the filth on my walls, at the books on my shelf, at the stupid rug my mother bought from Good Will because it matched my curtains.  At the speed of sound, my eyes dart toward a bowl of fermenting Cheerios in the corner.  I have to throw it out;   No.  They’ll see me.   I feel my lungs growing mold.  No.  I have to stay here where it’s safe.  I’ll just put on some music.  Sex Pistols.  No, the Smiths. What was I doing again?

 

LSD can really fuck with your head.  Ten nights in a row I’ve been sitting under these fluorescent lights.  If you stare at em long enough you begin to feel like you’re in outer space.  Details emerge from next to nothing whether it be visually, mentally, aurally or my favorite: conspiratorially.  And since great heights are never reached without a boost, I do so frequently.

 

Back on the coaster.  The radio becomes psychic and takes the reigns for a while.  Every word rings with significance.  

If they could see me now:  head rushing skin blushing teeth grinding radiating heat and tension out with the cigarette smoke.  I hear the DJ say the name Jimmie.  This is exactly where I’m supposed to be. 

I light another cigarette;  only three packs in today, only three packs in.   The smoke leaves not through my mouth but through my skin.  I put on something loud and fast. As the sound waves reach my ears, I grind my teeth to the chords and look out my window into the still of night. 

 

Do you believe in magic? Well, what if man actually tapped into some natural magic here?  What if every resource on earth: the grass, roses, trees, water, marijuana, dog shit were all ingredients in this kind of epic cosmic equation that once rendered, could tap into things we’ve never thought possible.  What if the creation of LSD started as science and ended as magic.  If mankind for the first time, popped mother nature’s proverbial cherry, her giant combination lock preserving a deep conscious network of supernatural energy, just begging to be used after millions of years of dormancy; like a can of soda thrown into a wall.  That is what LSD is for me.  My history teacher teacher called me a conspiracy theorist.   I told her I'm a DIY scientist.  I have nothing but the future of my species in mind.  

 

I think about my parents. They just love you and want to help.  Tell them you’re sorry.  Tell them you're sorry for being a piece of shit.  Tell them they are you and you are them.  Hug them.

I crawl onto my bed and under the covers, squeezing my eyes tight as I bring my knees up to my chin and curl into a fetal ball.  I reach for my headphones beside the bed.  Simon and Garfunkel.

 

And I’m drifting.  I’m an infant on a flying bed, sailing gracefully through a cosmic network of stars and space, of lights and shapes, of time and memories back to the simplicity before there was birth when I was not yet an atom.  

 

I’m jerked back into the suck.  The music has been swallowed like water down the drain.  The batteries are dead and illusions are reality. 

I’m dying.  I feel the aneurysm getting wider.  I’m gay. I ate a banana and it morphed into a cock.  I’m ugly.  I have the face of jackal;  Now I’m in the mirror, and all I see is some beady eyed demonoid beast with leathery wings and a leaky snout.  I’m smart. Every idea I have at night screams money.  And I’m sleepy.

But that just can’t happen.

 

Sometimes, you can get so tired that you’ll float in and out of paralysis. Last month,  after two days of no sleep and 9 blots,  I was abducted by aliens.  They crept into my room to poke me with their long grey spider like fingers and probe me with eyes of black diamonds.   When I was returned to my bed, Signs was on TV.  I’m sure it was the drugs.

 

Why do I do this to myself?  Where am I going?   I wish I could rewind or give birth or clone myself; if only to observe my own growth and see exactly where I went wrong and stop it. I wish those Cheerios were in the kitchen sink instead of in here with me radiating stink and mold and settling in my lungs where it will grow and fester and consume my soul. 

 

I promised myself this would be the last time.  And I say that every time.  But something keeps driving me back.  I don’t know if it’s the boredom.  And I don’t know if it’s the rush.  But I know that it makes me feel like there’s purpose in the universe.  And when I’m back in reality all there is is empty space.  And all I feel is a nihilistic void. and all I seek is isolation. and all i believe in is nothing. 

And nothing is greaT 


© Copyright 2017 Greg Klepper. All rights reserved.

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