by James Hunt
Sense? No, no thank you.
“What was that?!” Phil yells over the loud music in Deep Purple after a shadow crossed in front of the window letting sunlight into the dark basement, the only light source. He runs over to look for the source of the disruption. Looking up and out at the world he must have just missed seeing the mischievous-Orange versions of us begin our journey to the land of Blue. What a shame, I am quite certain he would have had a massive seizure to the Nth degree had he caught a glimpse of us walking past the window when we were both, obviously, still here in the basement. He wouldn't be able to handle the complexity of being in more than one place at one time AND being aware of it, I am very sure of this. It takes a strong constitution to deal with such things.
Sitting on the counter next to the sink, in Egg-Shell White, we listen to the foolish parallel off-shoots of ourselves in the ominous Deep Purple scream about being in some sort of hell created to keep their dangerous minds under tight control.
“Nothing is happening,” Phil said with excitement.
“Yet... EVERYTHING, is happening?”
“Exactly,” Phil said. Complete mind synchronization.
“I wonder what the We's from Orange are up to right now,” I thought aloud.
“...What?”
* * *
We walked and talked on our way to our destination. The robo-walk taking control over our spinal columns, causing us to walk in the most robotic fashion. It's a common side effect to walk in this way on such a high dose of Dex. The shoulders tense up and the body ceases to bounce naturally, the arms plaster to the hips and the forearms shoot out at a 90 degree angle from the body, just hovering there like the arms of a forklift. Gliding up and down the aisles of the WallyWhirled hell, I wondered how many of the people who were tripping on the evil Dex were just casually walking past us as we were doing to them. Then I began to think, how many people did this? How many poor psychedelic junkies were there in this town? How many times have I walked right past someone who was just as fucked up as I am at this moment? I mean, if I do this on such a regular basis and no one even suspects a thing, is it unreasonable to think that there is an entire army just walking around in robotic stances praying they aren't discovered? I think not. Highly reasonable.
* * *
“I need a belt,” I said when I realized my pants were ready to hit the floor at any second. Phil accepted this mission and we made our way to the belts. I picked out a white cloth belt with metal holes off of the girl's belt rack and we headed for the registers. Oh god, the woman at the cash register is staring at me. The trip had just gone sour on me. I started to panic. The scared child in me was rearing its ugly head again. Her head is so big, it's completely unnatural. I stared into her soul and she gave me a foul look for it. I apologized silently and pulled Phil aside.
“I can't do this, Phil!” I said too loudly.
“Can't do what?”
“I don't even know how to use this thing,” I said, showing him my credit card. Children on drugs with credit cards, it's a beautiful thing.
“Oh no problem, dude, I can handle that,” he said and snatched it from me. I asked him if he was sure. He reassured me confidently. Thank god.
We walked up to the fatheaded cashier and handed her the belt, which she scanned in more of a mechanized habit-formed reaction than any actual human effort. I could instantly see this girl's entire life: She was born into a normal family in which she received a normal amount of love and a normal dose of friendships and normal failed relationships. She felt the normal pressures of being a normal teen. She drank normal beer with normal douche-bag guys who had normal sex with her normal drunk body. She developed a normal psychological problem that is closely associated with having normally casual sex with fashionably normal douche-bags. No one loved her, they all felt an indifference, a sick – normal – apathy at her existence. No one hated her, she wasn't worth the time. She didn't know what life was about. She was normal. Now she wakes up every damned day, slumps into her bathroom. Strips down and wearily peers into the mirror hoping to see something other than her sagging breasts, tired face, and sad eyes that are reflected back to her every other day. Every day secures her sad expression and she is reminded that her life is nothing more than a sequence of tired events and droopy breasts swinging uselessly below her neck. She climbs into the shower and washes herself. She spreads soapsuds over her ever-aging skin and lets them run down her long skinny legs, down the drain. All the while wishing she could go down too. She then removes the shower head from it’s mounting and pushes it between her legs. Throwing her head back and closing her eyes, she cries to herself as she experiences the closest thing she will ever know to true happiness. She convulses a little when it’s all over. This was the most exciting point of her day and she puts on her polo shirt and nametag, and gets in her car. She works for nine monotonous hours and retreats back home where she watches sitcoms on her pullout couch. Every day is the exact same. And she'll never know what life is all about.
Or perhaps she had a great life with many people who loved her, but I will always remember the sad, normal girl from WallyWhirled who existed for nothing more than to provide me with a belt to hold my pants up. That’s what her life was all about.
She told us how much the belt was, but Phil just stood there staring at her. Her face looked confused and contorted and kind of scratchy – like the film of my vision was slightly aged. She must have wondered why this punk-fuck was interrupting her depressing little routine. The gears must have started to turn again and he blinked and looked at me, bewildered. I motioned for him to do what we came here to do by pointing at the credit card machine. He looked at it in a shock that would have sent me into a fit of laughter had we been in a less serious situation. He took the card and attempted to swipe it through the slot, but completely over shot and swiped right over top of the machine. Complete shock. Holy hell! Who saw that?! I looked around nervously. He did the same, making this scene more of an atrocity than it originally was. He finally scanned the card the correct way, looking ashamed of himself, but at the same time, stifling laughter. He didn't know my PIN and so I whispered it to him, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible. The look from the cashier burned into my skull. Don't judge me, you droopy-breasted whore! I know what you did with the football team in high school!
Upon stepping outside of the department store from hell we burst into laughter – strange and twisted Dextromethorphan induced cackling. I reeled at this squeal coming out of me. Gary and I had creatively named this, the robo-laugh. We were so clever converting everyday words into Tussin Speak. Robo-walk, robo-laugh, robo-fuck, anything you can think of instantly became witty enough for us when a robo was added to the beginning of it. Stupidity. At least I hadn't reached the point of half-speak yet. This is a whole other language that sociologists will scratch their balding heads over from inside their perfectly constructed little world of models and theories on human behavior. This language is basically cave-man speak: simple sentences, excluding articles and prepositions, and accompanied by apathetic hand gestures. It was the beginning of the end for language – right at the dawn of the internet meme. We single-highhandedly brought down the entire art of linguistics by pumping our brains full of cough syrup.
I also had the idea of doing away with bars. Why drink beer or liquor when you could just drink cough syrup? It is a far superior experience, and you don't have to drink near as much. Instead of these useless ethanol institutions – where cops wait outside to arrest you for consuming state-allotted liquor – we would have RoboBars. At these RoboBars there would be a robotic bartender who would mix up your favorite brand and dose of syrupy goodness. The robot bartender would have a fiber-optic mustache. He would ask what you would like and you would reply with any Dextromethorphan product. You could get the classic eight fluid ounces of purple goop (I'll have the usual), or you could go a little more exotic with the citrusy flavor of Delsyn (I'll have an Orange Jew Lee Us). “What size, sir or mad
am? It comes in the three ounce pussy shit, or the Delsyn Five challenge.” If you were feeling brave, you could go into really dangerous territory and order a Delsyn on the rocks. This last one was a favorite of mine for a while. It consists of a Five ounce of Delsyn, for the long-lasting effects of PolyDextromethorphan, and half a box of Corocidin, for the fast-acting numbness and majorly mind-altering effects of the Chlorpheniramine Maleate/Dextromethorphan combination. A completely horrid combination. My digestive system would never recover fully from a week at the RoboBar.
* * *
Back in Egg-Shell White it was as if Orange, Deep Purple, and Mellow Yellow had never existed at all. It was all in our heads. We never left. We never came back. Nothing happened, but everything had happened. It wasn't over, but it had ended hours ago. We were convinced that the trip was over. We were satisfied with the experience, which may have happened, but most likely existed only in our subconscious. We shrugged off the stupidity of the whole deal and I dropped Phil off at his house.
I felt a non-hatred for the bastard. The magic of Robotussin. Bringing people together. Bringing thoughts together. Bringing addicts together.
This is the beginning of the end for our dear RoboChildren. Poor creatures, they thought their creativity and perseverance within the drug-addled lifestyle would get them somewhere worth going. Perhaps they were on to something? Perhaps they needed only dig deeper into this world? They had nothing to lose because they had nothing to gain. No one knew their names, but they damn sure will. Of this, they were certain. Nothing was happening, but it meant everything to them.
james ---- the narcissist ----
Okay, here's the deal, kids. I was born in Colorado.
So that means I'm better than you.
Especially if you're from Ohio.
Which is where I currently reside.
In some fucked up small town where the cops are sadistic rednecks
and the women are loose bags of booze and anal leakage.
Deep down I consider myself a good person.
Even deeper, though, I wouldn't be surprised if god himself
came to Earth to tell me I am the most evil person on the planet.
I laugh when old people die.
I enjoy watching little kids fall down and get hurt.
I believe most rape victims wanted it – in some form or another.
And I don't believe in love – anymore.
I met Kristal two years ago.
She was a tiny girl who walked around the hallways
with her books self-consciously held against her small chest.
She wore baggy sweatshirts and really skinny jeans.
Her hair was dyed red, and her laugh was intoxicating.
I was in a class with her and I would try
my hardest to make as many jokes as possible
just to hear her laugh from the back of the classroom.
I'd do anything for the laugh in the back of the room.
When I finally talked to her, I was entranced.
She was magical.
She sent tingles throughout my entire being and I was in love.
My Disney movie upbringing was to blame for this.
We dated.
We dated for two and a half years.
We couldn't go five minutes without texting each other.
We had sex everywhere, and as often as we could.
It was my first real addiction – she was my first addiction.
But she wouldn't be my last.
Far from it.
Chapter 9
The Third RoboChild,
Pop-Up Tents and
Cats with Skittles
it begins with a day at work where nothing is fun,
everything is lame, I hate it.
Music pushes me to the limits without bound.
Striking in me the memories of you.
The time we spent together.
Anyway, he feeels nothing matters anymore
and tries to assess the situation at hand
the others try to kill themselves in a glamorous way
but mine will be with the glass in front of me
in the shower the water trickles down my arm
and I can’t feel my pulse.
I don't understand how this play has been put together.
Weird drugs used in weird ways with weird side effects.
I need to loathe you.
Its only when you get as simple as it can be
then can you understand what its all about!
Smart people are just too smart for their own good.
-The Suicide of james
4/20/2008
“I bet you like the fact that little boys diddle themselves to you, don't you? you little whore!” I muttered under my breath at the girl going to town on herself on my computer screen. Part of me hoped she would burst into flames from spontaneous combustion brought on by friction and all the graphic noises she made as she penetrated herself with such vigor. Large floppy pink dildo covered in woman juices. I was just starting to get into the moment when an instant message window popped up on my computer screen. WHO THE FUCK?!? Zach. Of course, leave it to the sex maniac to ruin my “alone time.” He was a jock – by my standards – even though he was shunned by most other jocks because of his bottomless sexual appetite. It got in the way of many of his social endeavors. Most of the girls at our school knew his daunting reputation of sleeping with most of the girls at our school because he slept with most of the girls at our school. I'd heard girls find him attractive, I just don't see how, but he got laid. A lot. I hadn't seen him in years, besides one time when he had somehow caught word I was having a party. He made a brief appearance, but hastily exited, stage right, to fondle some lusty little bitch. I didn't care. I didn't care if I ever saw him again – he was nothing to me. Zach was the most detached person I had ever met, and probably holds that title in most people's minds to this day. His parents are creepy alcoholics with suicidal tendencies. His sisters are nearly just as detached. They are little drones with the most twisted ways of coping with their home lives.
We made small talk for a bit and seeing as how I had just been “dumped” by my old group of robo trippers, Daniel, Gary and the bunch – I'd taken my girlfriend back from Gary, and he didn't much like that, and Daniel and the rest were sheep, mindlessly following whatever trend popped up – I desperately brought up the Tussin trip tactic. (I needed to get high. My girlfriend had taken to crying fits after we fucked, and it was really messing with my head.) Zach claimed to have done it before with some old friends I knew from school. It seemed strange, I did not put these guys in the robo category. They didn't seem psychedelically inclined at all. I shrugged it off as a misjudgment of character on my part. I told him of my desperation and he hastily agreed to gobble up some Corocidin I had just stolen from our local WallyWhirled. I had become very good at stealing from the corporate monster by this point and could take just about anything I wanted. Good thing too, as I had no job and, so, no money, and still had an insatiable appetite for being tripped out.
I'd accomplished my mission. I'd gotten the girl back, but something had changed in me. I just wanted to explore the inside of my head. I felt good about myself, having stolen her back, but I also felt hurt that Gary and Daniel had abandoned me – and right when we were about to discover the meaning of life together. My girlfriend kept reminding me I promised to stop doing drugs, since I'd done what I had started doing them to do. But I didn't want to stop. I couldn't stop, not when I was so close to finding out where my emotions had gone – so close to finding the edge of myself, where the line of sanity and complete freedom was. And she didn't feel the same. Something was broken.
I barely had enough time to rub one out when there was a knock at my door. I opened it to find Zach standing there looking as goofy as always, and next to him was a gorgeous little specimen. She looked oddly familiar. It's a shame that such lovely creatures like her had to be tainted by the scum that is Zach. H
e did say he was planning on bringing his girlfriend, I remembered, not sure what to make of it. I had hesitantly agreed, thinking she would find our games uninteresting.
She was pretty though. Fuck, ignore the girl, she's as good as dead to you now. Ignore the perfectly formed body, ignore the tight little ass and perky tits. No, I don't think like this, I am above the desires of the body. Besides, I have a girlfriend. She's a cunt, but she's my girlfriend nonetheless, and she sucks my dick nonetheless. Nonetheless, this one was to be on my mind for quite some time. I silently cursed Zach for his ability to reel these girls in so efficiently.
I showed them into my house, directly leading them into my kitchen where I pulled out a little baggy holding two boxes worth of the candy coated pills. I dumped them out on the counter and looked up to notice the horror on both their faces. I was wearing a black and white stripped shirt that made people dizzy when I moved my arms around–What does this have to do with anything? Hm. Something is missing. Memories are brought to the surface in surprising and random pieces–their faces: horror. They looked at the pile of 32 red pills sitting on my counter, then at me, questioning my sanity.