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perfectly high thank you #TBT

perfectly high thank you #TBT

This morning, someone close to me said this:

“I think it would be good for you to do LSD.”

We were not fighting, it was intended to be helpful. Then, more perplexing: “But I don’t want to be around. You should get together with (your best friend) and do LSD with her.”

Of course I asked: WHY? And added that I preferred to keep a firm boundary around my sanity; and why on earth would it be good for me to hallucinate, further expand the edges of an overactive imagination? Was I too prudish? Too stuffy? Too buttoned-up?

This is going to be good, thought I, ready for a paradigm shift, or at least an interesting discussion. But I didn’t get a reason.

“It’s just my recommendation.” Huh? “You need to do LSD,” he insisted, “with (your best friend).”  I scratched my head, slurped on my veggie smoothy with MACA powder and anti-oxidant chaser.

That evening, an intrepid friend recounted her Costa Rica adventure in which she floated around psychedelically on Ayahuasca. Ayahuasca (pronounced Iyawoska), if you google it, is all about dimethyltryptamine and divinity, and requires a trained Shaman and considerable preparation. After some dark, grotesque experiences, her mind travelled to what sounded like nirvana / heaven / enlightenment, and she came to several realizations of the heart. Beautiful right? I admire her courage, but honestly, her stories are enough for me to trip over for days. I am good at evolving vicariously. So why, I needed to know, did I ‘need’ to do LSD?

As the day itself evolved, I got more annoyed. I mean – really! – in the normal course of conversation, I would never throw in, “You need to have an affair,” or, “Shoplifting would be good for you.”

“Maybe because you talk so much,” a gym-buddy panted, “No offense, and maybe sometimes, it might, maybe sound, like you’re looking, you know, maybe searching for answers, maybe?”

“Blocked kundalini,” suggested the grocery store clerk. “He senses it.”

Nope, and nope.

I texted the best friend anointed with the task of tripping with me.

so . . . aren’t I weird enough without mind-altering? 
do I have existential despair? am I possessed? 
what am I missing? - do I need to do LSD? 
only you would know better … love, Murf.

Her answer tickled from the cells of my limbic stupor to the edges of my latent tactile receptors. I nodded at my iPhone as the school bus pulled up.

     Murf, she answered, we ARE LSD.

I spotted the braids and shiny-eyed smile, and walked home hand-in-hand with my daughter, in love with the day, feeling outrageously high.


PS – No plans for LSD, in case you’re reading, Mum, Dad, daughter, Father Heaney.

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