2C-I + 3-MEO-PCP + DALT + 3-MeO-PCE

Age: 21

Weight: 120 lbs

Dosage: 25 mg 2C-I oral, 6 mg 3-MeO-PCP oral, 17 mg 3-MeO-PCE Intranasal, 50 mg DALT smoked, 1 mg etizolam sublingual, 150 mg armodafinil oral

Setting: My apartment, outside in the snow

*This report dedicated to the memory of GG, I'm sorry for all the times I didn't have the time to talk. Thank you for everything you've helped me with, I hope you are at peace now*

~This report does not follow the usual structure of my reports and will likely not be posted anywhere other than my personal blog.~

I had spent the day with my parents, an intake appointment for a future surgery to remove some stubborn wisdom teeth. The cold air sat dense with looming stormclouds drifting in from the south, promising a night of unrelenting snow interspersed with a paralyzing freezing rain. Upon learning that my surgery would not be for another several months, I petitioned to spend the night at my apartment rather than with them, seeing as the house was in the process of being deconstructed.

They were likely apprehensive about sending me to spend a snowy night on my own… almost exactly 3 years before, hopped up on 4-AcO-DMT, I had wandered the city alone in the midst of a vicious blizzard, my escapades being stalked on the internet by them, unbeknownst to me. Should they stumble upon this, I imagine the ensuing frustration. “That’s why you’re so stressed, that’s why you’re failing school, that’s  why you’re depressed, this is why we don’t allow you to be independent, how could you lie to us, how could you let this happen again, how could we let this happen again, where did we go wrong?” Why was I so hell bent on furiously experiencing this experience? What was I to gain from this?

After all, there was little psychonautic potential in such a peculiar setting, at least as far as my goals of exploring the novelty of different chemicals. This was to be a night of hedonism, of sensory stimulation and the wrath of nature, of essence and energy, but why? What was I to gain? Did it matter if it were productive or not?

I arrived at my house and relaxed for several hours, knowing I wouldn’t be dosing until late into the night when the snows began. A friend stopped by to deliver all sorts of gifts unto me, mainly weed. They tossed me a dose of hexen too, under the condition that I eventually write a report on it. I am not one for stimulants but duty calls. For another night though.

The hours tick by, the snow begins to fall but it’s nothing more than sparse glimmers in the air, disintegrating on the solid earth. I had dosed with 4-HO-MET just 3 days before, so I knew that were I to include a psychedelic on this journey, I would likely experience cross tolerance. I pored through my collection attempting to piece together what substance or combination of substances I desired for this experience. I remember writing a bit ago about how I desired to fully construct and customize my thoughts and states of mind, how I desired to be entirely in control of an extended mind under perfect control. I shuddered to think how far down I’d drifted, how deep into the hedonism and escape I had so reviled before I had sunken. I opted for 2C-I, as it caused little bodily distress, topped off with the hard hitting combination of 3-MeO-PCP and 3-MeO-PCE.

The first hour strikes, I have dosed myself with a capsule containing a combination of 2C-I and 3-MeO-PCP. About half an hour in and I am feeling little but nausea. I begin to fear that I have wasted this night, that it’ll be too late in the night to dose by the time I’ve realized that the combination is simply too weak. I decide to kick things up a notch by impulsively smoking DALT, 50 mg of it with cannabis in my pipe. The air around me turns thick and bitter with the hydrocarbon clouds sticking to each breath, lingering like a lazy swarm of flies on a hot day. As they loom around me, pungent and pallid, I cut up a line of 3-MeO-PCE and slurp it down. It stings more than it ever has before and I find tears streaming from my eyes. I continue to smoke DALT as the bitter petroleum drip of the 3-MeO-PCE creeps down the back of my throat. The body interprets all of these chemicals as toxins, and the natural response to the chemoreceptors is that of revulsion, and I am truly repulsed with the headlong plunge I had just taken. Or perhaps repulsed by how disappointed I would be if it did not meet my expectations.

An hour and a half in and I still only feel slightly different, and I do not know if it’s because I’ve been smoking weed. My train is late, and I am impatiently pacing the platform, waiting for its headlights to emerge from the gloom. The comeup is a trickle, roots crawling into the sky to feed an eager mind, to sip moisture from the clouds. I soon feel light. I soon feel reckless. I soon feel hyped up, ready for adventure, ready to throw myself headlong into the world outside. It’s a familiar mania, a familiar feeling of the concentric pulses of light spreading parallax across my mind, flickering the neurons on and off as they go. I message someone I developed a sprightly fancy for… I would later find it’s likely unrequited but it’s nonetheless a pleasant and nostalgic feeling in the moment, of leaping blindly into the warm ocean, of my heart skipping a beat upon a reply. It’s inconsequential, it’s best to let sleeping dogs lie, it’s best not to rattle off my feelings in pointlessly flowery words but also… (I'm in an open relationship I am not an adulterer.)

Two hours in and I have had enough of bathing in the acrid air I had so eagerly polluted. The snow has begun its habit of draping itself lazily on every surface, of covering every inch of the world with glittering crystals, and it only continued to ride feverishly into the earth on the saddles of the swirling winds. I bundled myself up like I never had before, no winter would catch me off-guard. I was not going to be the drug addict who freezes to death. I rolled a joint for the road, put on two layers of pants, several layers on top, two layers of socks, two layers of gloves, my scarf, my coat, and lastly my boats, and embarked.

I felt like the effects had to have plateaued by now, that my ascent was over and I was sitting comfortably, albeit disappointingly, on the top. I had to confront the fury of nature without a shred of fury in my mind, not an inkling of the potential maelstrom that would cast me adrift on the whirling squalls of the snowstorm, it certainly felt mismatched and ever so slightly disappointing. Drugs like to play with me though, remind me who is in power and lurk in the shadows.

I set out into the swirling blizzard, tendrils of snow wrapping around me and pulling me into the night. I am a body, levitating, my legs cast adrift to some distant somewhere. I begin to rise up, more and more as I walk, higher and higher. Those icy tendrils that had crept their way into me were not blossoming. The world around me is silent and other people are foreign and strange, twisting and contorting with the melted vitreous air. They are ghosts, fluttering through the night, pulsing with wind.

I reach my destination: A parking garage, blistered by frost, sterilized by the cold. The beeping of some alarm at some construction site next door intermeshes with the gentle sound of the snow pitter pattering on my hood. On the roof is absolute solace. A wide open space of untouched virgin snow, flat and white and delicately and intricately textured to sparkle and glisten under the screaming fluorescent lights. What a delightful coalescence of concrete, bare steel, avaricious winds, starkness and sterility, hard surfaces chilled to their purest grey. The sky looming above like the fingers of some billowing giant, collapsing and reforming unto themselves, the halos of lights in the obscured distance, the reduction of all fidelity of the world around me. I betray the virgin snow with my footprints and flop down at the base of a concrete barrier, watching the snowflakes streak like laserbeams under the watchful gaze of a halogen light. I sit there, letting the snow creep over me like a swarm of hungry ants, letting it strike my head, one flake at a time, knowing that eventually, together, they can bury me. Utter silence, except for that soft tap-tapping of their glorious and futile battle.

Ice and metal and concrete. My sense of body gives way to an unfettered amorphous warmth, loosely contained in the bundles I have encased myself in, but free to flutter and swirl and slosh within that frame. Liquid fire, chilled at the fringes by the dead grey eyes of nature. I spin around like a whirling dervish, I revel in my dizziness, in my freedom to walk anywhere on this great blank canvas, in my ability to spin and jump and slide and roll on the ground, my freedom an illusion bound by the warmth my body could maintain. I was an explorer in an alien land, a voyeur, a visitor, one who dare not overstay their welcome. I am dizzy. I feel nothing. I feel rebellious, alone, unique, special, I feel the hypomania of my favorite arylcyclohexylamines creeping into the back door before making its surprise appearance. I want to text the person I fancy, show off to them the experience I’m having, what I am subjecting my senses to. I want to share this experience with the world, I want to wear it like a medal and have it loom above me, announce that I am special, I am unique. I want to scream, but my words would just freeze in the air and clatter to the ground.

I am lying in the snow. I close my eyes. A memory crawls in, a few days ago. I am pacing the streets on a frigid night with a friend after a leftist org meeting, she told me she could procure me PCP. I had longed for a powder or some controlled form, but alas I was settling for dipped cigarettes. We shuffled around the tangled streets like hunchbacked shadows, stealthily passing wisps of words and phrases to passerby, setting out lines for what we sought. A man calmly and methodically produced a little baggie containing crack cocaine, my friend smoked it right there on the frigid street next to a metal garage door. We paced and waited and asked some more, seeking the “dippers” I had tagged along on this sojourn for. We eventually find our man, posted on the corner he has claimed, his speech and actions erratic and paranoid. He ducks into an alleyway to dip several cigarettes after prominently displaying a firearm to us, perhaps eager to show off his toy to two seemingly bleary eyed college kids, perhaps to reassure us that crossing him would bring about no benefit. We returned to my house where my friend slurped down tendril after tendril of crack smoke in my filthy little cave. I spent the rest of the night dissociating and gaggling on about the tenets of Marxism-leninism to my friend. Another experience to histrionically spill forth, another way to appear interesting, another way to potentially fulfill the total acceptance brought about by the physical desire of others, of many others.

                My mind was the freezer, and the memory sat on the shelf, perfectly preserved, intact for examination. I could pick through them and examine each one like leftovers, checking for mold and foul odors arising from the delusional thoughts that would leak their way in. I closed my eyes and let the glistening diamonds on the backs of my eyelids crash and splatter and shimmer in an elaborate dance while I poked at these leftovers one by one, a voyeur to the anxieties of my daily life. It was nice to take a vacation from myself every once in a while.

                I have someone who I love, more than anything. Yet, the feeling of kissing someone for the first time is hallucinatory experience in and of itself, the sparks and the quickening heart and the feeling of flesh as it touches flesh and the knowledge that someone has accepted you for who you are, appraised your beauty inside and out and deemed it worthy of the trust of just one wary part of their body. To feel the different way each person navigates this sacred ground, the emotions that go unsaid, the expressions unseen from closed eyes, despite the fact that the emotions and expressions are gushing forth ever so silently. To vividly imagine the world shrinking away before this exchange that would suck the breath from us both, the feeling immediately after when you see the stars in each other’s eyes …. I went too far.

                The world showed no signs of returning to me, I had been cast out and left to the turbulent frigid waters with nary a lifesaver or anything, in the darkness of night, with the snow crackling down around me. It felt fantastic and I showed no signs of returning to the world. I smoked a joint in the stairwell, the smoke tickling the frigid metal and pensively contributing yet another shade of grey to this infinite mosaic of the death of color. I was cold and gaunt, I was a beating heart in a setting where hearts should not beat, I was a poisoned mind on a night where my mind should have been wrapped calmly in blankets to let nature do her work behind closed doors. I was a toasty interloper into the barrens. The tracers behind the falling snowflakes began to lend an image of constant streaks of white from the heavens to the earth. I paraded amongst them as I set out for home, the frigid sculpture of the alarm across the street and the steel trusses and ice cold water soaking into the concrete gazing over me as I walked away.

                I arrived home and feverishly tore the layers of cloth from my body, casting them to the ground. My roommate was still awake and I tried to eke out an interaction with him. This was the point at which I discovered just how far out I had been cast tonight. His words traipsed from his mouth in the warm house like anyone’s would when greeted by their spun out roommate stumbling into the house covered in snow at 3 am. My words slipped and slid past each other, colliding and piling up and freezing together into a chaotic and awkward fracas that vehemently divorced itself from whatever my intentions were.

                Entering my room I am incoherent and inconsolable. However I dosed my candies, they decided not to rear their head until now, three hours into the experience. The visuals crackle and shrink the walls, the air is crystalline breaths and I am being smeared on the glass of whatever my reality has formed into today. I spend the next hour grappling with myself, in the way one tries to hold down a tent in a hurricane. I constantly feel like I am being blasted by gale force dissociative winds that tear my synapses wide open and scatter my neurons into the aether. I am always moving, even when I am sitting still. The world is wiped and smeared, and I am wiped and smeared with it.

                Four and a half hours into the experience and the writhing mass of dissociative maelstrom larvae have only slightly decided to cease their twitching and crawling and settle into the husk of my body. I am still now, at least more still than before, my skeleton protruding through my skin and my nerves off playing happily somewhere in the corner. Pangs of discomfort and unhealth and malaise contort through my veins and set off alarms across my body, alerting me to something wrong with the equilibrium.

                The crews move in to inspect- A twisting and bloating in the gut, pains where my bare ribs scrape against the inner membrane of my skin, a quick sharp jolt in the kidneys, an unsettling bloating in my bladder, an erosion on my protruding hipbones, how a wind battered stone must feel in the desert, a stricture in my chest, like I am bound too tight, and a roughness in my lungs that I will never comprehend.

I want to sleep, I have to be awake tomorrow. I am debating taking etizolam, as my breathing is already somewhat shallow, and I don’t want to subject myself to deadly respiratory depression. I decide I will simply bide my time, just sit there and wait as the dissociatives wind away. This combination is a relentless storm however, and it shows no signs of letting up. I am sitting here, doing nothing, feeling a great deal, just letting the clock tick by.

                Five hours in and I decide to dose that smidgen of etizolam to see if I can lull myself to sleep. I am supposed to get up and do things the next day.  The last note in the report reads:

this is not a good trip report

I am getting high while i still can

I am abusing drugs

I am frustrated with myself, yet I am glad I am living it up as much as possible for whatever life is left in me

                There isn’t much to say beyond that. It is hedonism, I came, I saw I conquered, I got high off my dome and spun into the winter night, all to gain from it were cool pictures and an edgy story to share with people to boost my social capital. It was successful, and I successfully have streamlined myself into a more spectacular trajectory of self destruction. The dissociation seems to melt before the sun, and while it lashed at me relentlessly in the dark, it retreats in the light and leaves me with a few merciful reminders of the power it once exacted over me.

                Sleep is off the table, the sun has been glaring at me knowingly for hours now and the snow has degenerated into an icy sleet that slaps at the windows ferociously yet impotently. I decide I might as well just pull through until my scheduled activities for the day. I sample 150 mg Armodafinil, this is my first time with this wakefulness promoting agent and I hope not to be let down. Its close friend modafinil once put me to sleep immediately after dosing, literally the opposite of what was advertised, so I hope this will be different.

                The hours trudge onwards as I dick around on my computer listening to the same UK dub tracks over and over again. I refrain from smoking more, just knowing I have to potentially interact with sober adults later. The Armodafinil has done its job quite well, it’s a very neutral wakefulness that doesn’t make me feel wired or drugged up or even euphoric in any way. Perhaps these are the drugs people should be using to improve their day to day experiences. A dissociative hurricane does not suit most if any settings. My body is upset with me, evidenced by a persistent headache and an irritating bloating feeling. The dissociatives seem to have numbed me to the point where my perception of pain has been diminished, as I begin to feel a stinging tingling pain in my thumb as I start to come off of the experience. Likely the beginnings of frostbite. This feeling persists for the next week or so.

The aforementioned person responds to my messages and we have a brief but delightful conversation, my heart quickens with the eagerness of getting to know someone who you truly want to know about. This would decay over the next few days but I enjoy it for now.

           It is of no matter. I leave later in the day, still in a daze to see the person I love most. We spend a pleasant day playing in the snow and cuddling together, taking in the warmth of each other’s bodies and the warmth of each other’s affections. The residual interplay of the textures on the walls mirror our bodies, clothed, warm, next to one another, appreciative of the proximity. I am infinitely grateful. This is something the drugs can never bring me. All I want to feel is good.