#where to buy lsd

[mondoreb]

End Times Prophecy Headlines: December 12, 2022

End Times Prophecy Headlines: December 12, 2022

End Times Prophecy Report.com HEADLINES MONDAY December 12, 2022 And OPINION “And Jesus answered and said unto them, Take heed that no man deceive you.” —Matthew 24:4 ===INTERNATIONAL UKRAINE: There have been 50,000 alleged war crimes in Ukraine. We worked to solve one – Only one side commits war crimes? RUSSIA:  Kremlin offers ‘unprecedented military support’ to Iran and North Korea in return…

[tavolgisvist]

At Laudate in Newdigate I decided that Saturday to take a very modest 250 milligrams of LSD in a final cup of tea with Joan before setting off for St John’s Wood to pick up Paul McCartney and Peter Asher and Tony Bramwell, the Apple team due next day at Bradford. <…> Paul seemed very positive and played us some rare recordings; ‘dubs’ he had made of songs, written by him for others, dubs on which he was singing for the first and last time. Maybe one day they will make an album of them, but maybe it will have to be over his dead body for I don’t see him wishing to complete that particular symphony in his lifetime. I said I had taken a dollop of the dreaded heaven-and-hell, and Paul said it should be an interesting journey, and it was. We stopped at a pub on the way up and I astonished myself by coping remarkably well up until the point where I asked the barman if I could buy a filthy table which stood in a corner covered in cigarette burns and the stains of long dead pints. <…> ‘Drink up,’ said Paul, seeing the signs and playing Dad. ‘Write your name here please, Paul,’ said the barman and we left.

We arrived in Bradford after dark. Some disabled people were operating rowing machines in a charity marathon in a local showroom. We wandered in and looked, leaving some silver in the collecting boxes, neither the first nor the last of the small spenders. It was midnight as we checked into the hotel. There wasn’t a soul or a sound except for the red-nosed night porter, as old as Moses. Paul had brought Martha (My Dear) with him – the sheepdog of the same name. ‘Can you shampoo her?’ he asked the porter who recoiled in terror. ‘It’s her arse,’ said Paul, and he put his fingers in the thick curls around Martha’s back passage and pulled off a cluster of clinkers. ‘Look!’ I nearly fainted. ‘I’m afraid not,’ said the porter. It was very late after all. Next morning, another lovely day. I felt very nice and clean around the brain, always have a lovely morning after acid. A few months earlier Paul and I had gone shopping for suits; he had told me navy blue pinstripe was already on the way back (meaning that he wore it) and I fell for it – and ordered one. I had taken it with me to Bradford; just right for Bradford I said. I wore it down to breakfast and then we went off to the Victoria Hall where the Black Dyke Mills Band were waiting on hard wooden chairs, looking bloody marvellous and real and solid and honourable and stocky and lots of other words like that. Paul had on a magenta shirt and a white jacket, double breasted, with black trousers (no one had ever told him they were on the way back), and the Black Dyke Mills Band was quite stunned by his charm and by the way he handled the music. Marvellous recordings were made, indoors and later in the street, of both ‘Thingumybob’ and ‘Yellow Submarine’. It was a good morning for everyone because the portable recording unit worked, the band and McCartney worked, and the press worked out beautifully – I saw dozens of old friends and we had a few pints and then lunch. At around three o’clock, as we filmed the last TV interview (‘How do you like Bradford?’ ‘It’s great …’; fast-moving stuff like that) I decided to off the suit and black shoes, put on a pair of red corduroys and a white Mexican cotton shirt from Olvera Street, Los Angeles, a couple of beads, an Indian scarf and down my throat went another 250 milligrams of the dreaded heaven-and-hell drug. What a day for a daydream. ‘Should be an interesting journey,’ said Paul. The chauffeur said: ‘Back to London?’ and we said ‘yes’, not sure that it was the right answer.

<…> As we rolled away from the South Midlands and approached the Northern Home Counties the acid really started to bounce. It was late afternoon and if there was a heaven to be found on this soil, then I reckoned it would be found this evening, in the green and gold of this divine countryside. ‘Would you like to swing on a star, carry moonbeams home in a jar?’ ‘Yes,’ said Peter Asher. ‘Where would you like to go?’ I asked. ‘AA Book,’ said Paul. ‘Pick the most beautiful name in Bedfordshire,’ I said, ‘that’s where we should go.’ Peter looked at the map for what seemed like two hours or more. ‘Harrold,’ he said, after fifteen seconds. ‘Harrold?’ said the driver, naturally knocked out with delight to leave the M1 and crawl down B, C and D roads to a village no one in the car, including himself, had ever heard of. We wound through Bedfordshire checking off the signs steadily until we reached the village sign: Harrold. Oh, it was a joyful Sunday sight. It was the village we were supposed to have fought the world wars to defend, for which we would be expected to fight the third when told to, but won’t. It was a Miniver hamlet on the Ouse and there were notices telling of the fete next Saturday, and a war memorial which made me weep. Thrushes and blackbirds sang and swallows dived into thatches and a little old mower wheezed as we walked down the only street there was past the inn which was closed, past the church which was open, nodding to a sandy man with a 1930s moustache and khaki shorts as he clipped his hedge and stared at these city people with funny hair and clothes. It was seven o’clock and acid or no acid, it was opening time and I steered us into the most beautiful village inn the world has ever known and there were three or four people in there, or more or less; magical antique villagers with smocks and shepherd’s crooks and also there was a fruit machine offering Jolly Joker tokens. Through the dancing lights, past the sparkle of the green and tawny bottles, I saw the sandy man with the khaki shorts. <…> ‘Welcome to Harrold, Paul,’ said the sandy man, the local dentist, downing the rich gold beer he had earned with his shears. ‘I can hardly believe it, in fact I think I’m dreaming.’ We next found ourselves in his house, below dipping oak beams, a banquet provided for us, hams and pies and multi-jewelled salads, new bread and cakes, chicken and fruit and wine; and the dentist’s wife, a jolly lady, still young beyond her maddest fantasies, bringing out her finest fare. Paul McCartney was at her table in the village of Harrold.

Hiding at a turn on the crooked staircase stood a little girl, shy and disbelieving. But she had brought a right-handed guitar and landed it in Paul’s (left-handed) hands but the wizards were producing this play by now and floating with the splendour of this, the strangest Happening since Harrold was born, the dentist and his wife, and the neighbours as they crowded the windows and the parlour, and the children, all caught their breath as Paul McCartney began to play the song he had written that week: ‘Hey Jude,’ it began. I sat peacefully, full of the goodness you can find within yourself when goodness is all around and the dentist’s wife picked up on it and asked why life couldn’t always be like this and I told her there was nothing to fear, nothing at all and the dentist brought out the wine he had been saving for the raffle at the fete next Saturday and we drank that to celebrate the death of fear and the coming of music to Harrold and then, and gradually, the dentist was freaking and he asked me what I thought I was talking about and for a moment it was very tough, very. Ah, but Dr Leary’s medicine was good that day and we came back to a good position again, but I didn’t feel quite right about the dentist after that, and I don’t think he felt quite right about me, but how was he to know and what was I to do? You don’t just tell strangers you’ve been taking that naughty old heaven’n’hell drug. It was now eleven o’clock and we were still in the house and the inn was closed but a winged messenger came to say that as this was the night of nights, never to return, the inn was to be re-opened. ‘In your honour, Paul.’ It was 11 p.m. Paul had The Look on his face, the ‘do we don’t we?’ I nodded: tonight we should. The pub was absolutely full. The whole village was here. Paul played the piano until at three o’clock a woman stood and sang ‘The Fool on the Hill’ and he left the piano to dance with her and kiss her on the cheek and then I went and sat in the little garden and cried for joy that we had come to Harrold. It was a most beautiful garden, with hundreds of old-fashioned flowers, lupins, foxgloves – that sort of thing, and Alan Smith came out, pissed as a newt and said, ‘Why so sad, old friend, why so sad on such a night?’ ‘Not sad,’ I said, ‘not sad, old pal, just happy to be alive.’ We left then, waved away by the Harrolds, by all of them, and we never went back and I never looked at the map again, not even to see if Harrold was there.

(As Time Goes by Derek Taylor)

(Part I, Part II, Part III, Part IV, Part V, Part VI, Part VII, Part VIII, Part IX, Part X, Part XI)

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[ismashedkasso666]

Ricky’s body in a quasi-medical sense? I dunno.

I am basing my estimates on the assumption that Ricky is 6 ft with an initial pre-weight of 160 lbs. I do not have reliable medical records to verify my claims regarding his height or true weight. However, it was mentioned in the book that Ricky was 6 ft. There doesn’t seem to be anything reliable about his weight, though.

THE EARLY DAYS OF JUNE IN 1984

June of 1984 was the height of Ricky’s homelessness, which absolutely contributed to his weight. During this time, he appeared to have lost nearly 40 lbs; his mental as well as physical health was declining, and he was blowing the majority of his profits on drugs (both for business and for personal use).

Gary stole from Ricky on April 21, so this is a bit after that incident. Thus, Gary is still currently in debt to Ricky.

PEAK HOMELESSNESS (EARLY JUNE OF 1984)

Ricky would sometimes sleep in a friend’s station wagon (with Jimmy Troiano) while they were dealing drugs in Kings Park, sometimes public restrooms, and sometimes behind the Midway (to put is extremely simply, the Midway is a store; I think it’s on Main Street).

Eventually, he found an abandoned house on Grove Street where he squatted until the police forced him out by chasing him. He then ended up at Scudder Beach in an old houseboat, staying with Pat Toussaint (aka Pagan Pat/Father Time), who had taken the old houseboat, and had occasionally lived there.

Supposedly, something unclear happened between the two, which led to a physical altercation. Ricky beat Pat up and left. (Ricky had also taken Pat’s necklace before he fled. Wasn’t sure whether that was necessary detail to add or not, but here it is.)

On one weekend in particular, Ricky was able to sneak back home while his parents, Lynn Kasso and Dick Kasso, were away. He showered, talked to his sister Wendy, and left the house with a tablecloth, which he later used as a cover from the rain when he went back to sleeping in Aztakea Woods.

SIGNIFICANT WEIGHT LOSS (EARLY JUNE OF 1984)

Again, assuming an initial pre-weight of 160 lbs (BMI 21.7), a 40 lb weight loss would drop his weight down to 120 lbs (BMI 16.3). I think that’s 25% of body mass dropped?

All that in just a month?… That’s genuinely absurd.

DETERIORATION OF HIS MENTAL AND PHYSICAL HEALTH, AND MONEY PROFITS (EARLY JUNE OF 1984)

One day Ricky showed up to the New Park wielding a baseball bat and began striking the roundhouse's support posts—while his friends sat inside.

"I wanna kill someone..." he muttered in between each vicious swing. "I wanna fucking kill somebody..."

Ellie Love, who was sitting in the roundhouse, yelled, "Ricky! You're too close to us! You're gonna hurt us!"

Suddenly a switch seemed to flip inside Ricky's mind. He lowered the bat, turned to Ellie, and said, "I would never, ever hurt you."

"He was walking around town like that for at least a week,” Ellie recalls. "Just murmuring with his shoulders hunched. We just thought it was the drugs speaking, not him. He was emaciated and looked like a zombie. Ricky was a walking drug by that point...."

Ellie had good reason to believe her friend looked like a zombie. In the last month, he had lost nearly forty pounds, almost certainly the result of sleeping in the woods and going without eating for long stretches of time. Most of Ricky's drug profits were going toward buying more stock for business and personal use. Spending nearly every hour of every day high on either LSD or angel dust, Ricky found little desire or opportunity to eat a decent meal.

RICKY DURING JUNE 17 AND JUNE 18 OF 1984

By this point, Gary owed only $20 dollars to Ricky before he was completely paid off.

June 17: High on angel dust, Ricky was downtown on Main Street using the pay phone to call home, but he didn’t answer until the fourth call—his mother, Lynn Kasso, had been the one to do so. They spoke very, very briefly (like, a sentence or two) before Ricky had hung up. He fell asleep on a bag of trash in the rear of the Midway.

June 18: Ricky made the mile-long walk home from Main Street and arrived around 7:30 A.M.

When Lynn opened the front door, she was horrified by what she saw. Her son was shockingly underweight, his hair was greasy, and his clothes were full of holes.

Essentially, after this, he got cleaned up and got in his father’s car so they could drive him to court. After court, Ricky wanted to be dropped off at the head shop for something to eat, as he hadn’t eaten in three days. This is where the bagel incident happened: Ricky wanted a quarter for a bagel, which turned into an argument.

Ricky kicked his father’s car, which pissed Dick off so much that he sped down the road. 20 minutes later, he drove back and threw two dollars at Ricky, then drove off again after banishing Ricky from home and forbidding him to speak to the rest of the family.

Don't call me. Don't come to the house. Don't ask for anything. Don't talk to your mother or your sisters ever again.

Just leave me alone—I never want to see you again.

AFTERMATH, AND TONY RUGGI SEEING RICKY’S EMACIATED APPEARANCE (MID-JUNE OF 1984)

Ricky tried to shrug off the ordeal and headed inside the deli next door to the Midway to buy his bagel. Later he walked down the side of 25A with his thumb out, trying to hitch a ride to Kings Park. There, he planned to meet Jimmy and score some microdots and dust to sell. Ironically, the one car that pulled over was driven by none other than Tony Ruggi from the Place. Just like Lynn Kasso, Ruggi was shaken by Ricky's appearance as he got into the car. Aside from his dramatic weight loss, Ricky also smelled horrible and looked gravely ill.

GARY LAUWERS MURDERED ON JUNE 19 OF 1984…

Mmm… I think this section needs its own post(s).

RICKY’S APPEARANCE ON NEWSPAPERS

For those who hadn't seen Ricky in a while, the photo was even more shocking once it graced the front page of nearly every major newspaper in the country. The manic and greasy-haired teenager didn't even resemble the Ricky they knew. He looked so thin and evil.

[bambi-kinos]

Re: John being demi - don’t you think it’s possible he had sex because that’s what was expected of him? His age, lifestyle, etc. Especially because of his self-destructive tendencies and not always acting on how he truly feels. Or acting in a way that doesn’t express how he truly feels - i.e. Barcelona. He could have easily slept with Yoko early on, with her throwing herself at him but it wasn’t until correspondence and a deeper connection did he engage sexually. Not to mention him not wanting to have sex with men later in life because he couldn’t find one he connected with in that way. To me even the lyric “My love will turn you on” - is revealing.

If you want to interpret John Lennon as demisexual then you certainly can and I can't and won't stop you. But since you're asking me directly my answer is just a flat "no." John was sexually attracted to women so he slept with them. He was conventional that way. He was also hooking up with Yoko soon after Indica, he did not wait until the night he took LSD with her and recorded the sex tape.

You need to remember the cultural climate John existed in. It was "expected" of John to get married to a woman, settle down with her, have children, hold a steady uninspiring job, and then die at 70 with a gold pocket watch in his waistcoat without ever standing out from the crowd or doing anything that would express his individuality and personal needs. These were the stultifying expectations John grew up under and he hated it.

The Beatles kept their orgies secret because it would have destroyed them as a band if it got out that they were nailing groupies, this is the exact OPPOSITE of it being "expected" of them to have sex with lots of women.

The performative aspect was the groupies expectation of John to act like Beatle John while he was thrusting. That doesn't mean John disliked it or was carrying out an act he found distasteful for the sake of expectations. And remember: John kept posters of Bridget Bardot and Elvis Presley in his bedroom at Mendips because he was jerkin' it to their images. He only had a parasocial fanboy relationship with them but he was deeply sexually attracted to both. This is the opposite of demisexuality which requires a personal connection of some kind.

I talked about this in the McLennon server this afternoon so I'll just repost what I said in there:

Leggy「IT'S A GUNDAM 」 — Today at 5:20 PM john was just so laden with PTSD and agoraphobia

like Shotton talks about how John started turtling up once he got Kenwood, the hibernation years were a long time coming. but he was so deeply separated from other people even as a child and that just got worse and worse over time.

like sex was a way for John to connect with human beings and I wonder if it was the only way he could. that's not to say he couldn't fall in love if he met people but he had to keep his connections shallow as a matter of survival, he wasn't able to form those relationships easily and when he did connect to others it was because they pursued him.

Cynthia was the aggressor in her relationship with John, he liked her but he didn't pay attention to her until she dyed her hair blonde to catch his eye. Paul was super down bad. Yoko stalked him.

Otherwise even as a teenager John's relationships were strictly about sex, not romantic love, and he wasn't interested in romantic love until Paul and art school came into his life.

***

This is the exact opposite of demisexuality. John could form personal relationships and he could fall in love with people but when he did, he seemed to back away from them sexually. If we count Paul as one of John's lovers (and I do) then we see this happen to where John broke it off with Paul to pursue someone else physically (in this case Yoko.) John liked using sex as a way to connect with others but the moment genuine feelings got involved he got skittish. Note that he initially was planning to buy a house with May Pang but then he went back to Yoko when the Montauk plans began solidifying. John was certainly attracted to May Pang and he certainly had a personal connection with her but when that started getting a little too real and too deep, then he left her and would only hook up with her occasionally in controlled environments where he could ghost her easily afterwards.

The same thing happened with Yoko: after Sean was born, she and John stopped having sex and she sent him to the massage parlors to avoid dealing with him.

And don't forget how John's relationship with May Pang started: Yoko hired May Pang to be John's mistress. May was paid by Yoko to have sex with John and to keep him within Yoko's reach while they were in Los Angeles, what with Yoko's daily phone calls. May did fall in love with John but John knew that May was a business asset controlled by his wife and that she was being paid to never leave him. This was the foundation of their affection for each other. When May and John went back to New York and started looking for houses in Montauk, John opted to go back to Yoko for her smoking cure and came back ready to leave May Pang, aka the relationship with May Pang was becoming too real and too deeply rooted in actual Love (with that capital L) that meant May would no longer be forced to stay with John due to receiving a salary from Yoko Ono.

What seems to be more of a pattern in his life is that he was very wary of forming personal connections with others, when they did form it was because the second person pursued him vigorously, and then he had a saddening tendency to leave once his love with that second person began to develop into a deep, long lasting adult relationship. If anything, John seemed to use sex as a way to keep himself hidden and to stop forming connections with others because the moment he had sex with someone he could safely label them "disposable" which is exactly what he did with Paul and May despite his intense connections with both of them and the fact that he was sexually intimate with both of them.

John seemed to fear love and the responsibilities and ecstasies that it brings. This is not demisexuality as I understand it and I simply cannot agree with the assertion that John was demisexual.

[lazycowboy666]

hc for the vongola kids’ favorite video game genres / titles, pt 1 (nami trio); aiming for late 90s-mid 10s which is the general timeline for the series.

tsuna:

mixed PC and console, mostly console (PS2 or Game Cube). already canon that he likes rhythm games (which is so cute and kinda funny considering how uncoordinated he is), so he’s a big fan of Beatmania IIDX, Pop’n Music, osu!, Taiko no Tatsujin, etc. pretty good at them and they help calm his ADHD down. plays Katamari for similar stimulation reasons with the loud cheerful music and straightforward structure.

tried playing DDR and almost actually died. he avoids any footwork ones in the arcade; playing in public stresses him out in general so he usually will buy or rent games for home. Lambo got a Wii for his birthday and between the two of them, the controllers were lodged in the drywall by the end of the day after playing Wii Sports.

likes the Animal Crossing series because it’s cozy, doesn’t get too serious with in-game achievements but plays regularly. doesn’t time travel; got yelled at by Resetti once when he was younger and shut the game off on accident, he cried so hard he almost threw up. feels bad if he leaves his villagers alone too long. when he didn’t have friends growing up, he’d really look forward to in-game holidays and birthdays (sob). trying to collect the squirrels.

will play Smash with Lambo; that’s what helped them bond when Lambo first moved in. fighting games kinda stress him out so this is the most he’ll really play them. his main is Kirby, or Luigi because nobody picks Luigi. :( low to mid-tier.

also they play Minecraft together and are both pretty terrible at it but have fun. introduced it to Gokudera, Yamamoto, and Ryohei and they’ll play it with Lambo when either (or all) of them are babysitting him. Tsuna’s constantly on the death alert feed, usually dying from falling into lava. somehow slayed the Ender Dragon.

gokudera:

PC gamer trash, uses emulators because he can’t afford a console. loves difficult, convoluted RPGs and RTS (gag). does not like online lobbies. horror and sci-fi fanatic, especially survival-esque games that require puzzle-solving like Resident Evil, Silent Hill, and Bioshock. is one of those freaks who illegally downloads unsettling, semi-dangerous games (like Lostboy, Sad Satan, LSD: Dream Emulator) and plays them with HyperCam on because he’s convinced he’s going to see a ghost. has had to install like 5 firewalls and rebuild his PC once.

Demon’s Souls / Dark Souls loser. has a freakish knowledge of where everything is, including short-cuts and secrets. he focuses on magic and will discard and replace weapons without much thought. knows lore simply from the item descriptions. really strategic, memorizes enemy move sets, but will go the hard way because it’s fun. utterly deranged. it’s honestly pretty impressive but it kinda scares tsuna because how many hours did you put into this? how did you kill that boss so quickly? where is your armor, gokudera-kun—

he doesn’t like most FPS games because they can trigger his PTSD if they’re too realistic, but killing endless undead/demons/monsters scratches a weird itch for him so he can play DOOM, and L4D w/ his vongola friends eventually (he’s constantly reviving Tsuna). really likes Half Life and Portal because aliens and puzzles alongside bip-bip. will play Hotline Miami w/ Shittopi if only for the god-tier music but has to be really stoned with her, else he gets uncomfy w/ the content being so close to his old hitman lifestyle.

hates platformers with every fiber of his being. says they’re for children but really he’s so impatient he sucks at them. Yamamoto made him play Yoshi’s Island and he almost blacked out from sheer rage. only tolerates Pikmin because, again, aliens and puzzles. will play Smash under duress: mains Samus or Fox, mid-tier, loses to Yamamoto half the time. returns the favor in Mortal Kombat which he’s pretty decent at.

the only one who plays Minecraft outside group sessions. has started building late at night when his insomnia is bad; really likes the soothing music and will leave it on even when he’s not playing. makes replicas of structures from his favorite nerd media (currently working on the Enterprise).

yamamoto:

pure console lad, likes the Genesis, the Dreamcast, and the GameCube; his dad has a few older consoles that he’s also inherited. in similar hand-me-down style and true to canon, he owns a ridiculous number of late 90s/early 00s baseball video games. can play them for hours and gets really serious about them.

a Sonic stan. does enjoy some Mario Kart and Smash with the boys (mains Ness or Link, mid-high tier)—but he was a Sonic kid and really wanted Soap Shoes growing up. likes the OG 8-bit side-scrollers like Sonic Adventure 2 the most but his ADHD clings to super fast, timing-based shit like Sonic Heroes. also enjoys Rayman but gets stuck a lot.

weirdly good at Super Monkey Ball and knows how to short-cut in ways previously unknown to man. will launch himself across the level and win in less than 3 seconds. how? “idk just lucky i guess.” plays Baby.

has a few broken, shitty titles like Dark Castle, Pen Pen Trilcelon, Puyo Pop Fever. will make Gokudera play them just to infuriate him; this also applies to annoying platformers, it’s just funny to watch him rage quit. generally will troll Gokudera in video games to get a rise out of him, like dropping gravel on him or flooding his caves in Minecraft; never enough to actually ruin the game but enough to annoy him.

started playing Hitman as a joke but is spooky good at it despite not playing FPS/stealth games. “hey gokudera did you ever get to dress up as—” “for the last time, NO.” is generally pretty bad at games with a lot of details/strategy (other than baseball) because he starts tuning out. strong-arms Gokudera into tag-teaming hard puzzles and co-op games in general to build teamwork.

[blubushie]

i hear there’s a spooky story to be told?

CLAPS HANDS TOGETHER. It's time for the actual scariest thing I've seen in the bush!

A TALE OF LSD

Warning: DO NOT FUCKING READ THIS if it's night time where you are, or monsters/paranormal/supernatural/ghost shit freaks you out. If you read it anyway it is NOT MY PROBLEM.

About a year ago, I decided to try LSD.

I had never done LSD before! I do however have a lot of experience with mushrooms and DMT. Mushrooms are on the low end of the psychedelic experience and DMT is on the high end, so I figured that LSD's intensity would be somewhere between both of these, like a heroic dose of shrooms or something. So I buy some acid tabs off a bloke I know, go bush, and it's a Friday arvo when I make camp and feed Misty. I have a quick sleep and four hours later I figure yeah, ok, let's do this.

(Little-known fact about me: I don't like tripping during the day and I actually prefer tripping at night. One, I adore how the stars look during a trip, and two, night time is preferred because there's little interference from the outside world. It feels "calmer," if that makes sense, and so I feel safer.)

I chew the tab (it's a little jelly thing), chase it with some water, then lie back in bed and wait for a bit. Eventually I got bored and started reading through one of my firearms catalogues cuz that works out best for me--it's easy to tell when a trip's starting. The LSD kicked in within 15 minutes of starting to read, so maybe 45 minutes after taking it.

At first it's fine, I'm chill, everything's cool. It's pretty funky and I'm enjoying it. Misty's on the bed with me. I'm reading and petting her and giggling at how silly she looks, and realising how silly I must look, and then I'm giggling at my own silliness. LSD is a mild stimulant (I did not know this when I took it) so at one point I was out of bed and dancing around the cabin while looking for a packet of chips to munch on. I was having a really good time. I knew that I shouldn't leave the cabin at night, so I stayed inside, but I really wanted to go outside and run around for a bit. I felt warm (literally--my skin was flushed) and I was generally vibing and having a good time while I watched the tracers while waving my hands in front of my face, watching colours shift, watching the walls and everything around me trip-melt.

Lots of giggles were had and it was a good time.

(Something that needs to be noted is that in my culture, psychedelics are considered less "makes you see things" and more "lets you see things". There's a belief that everything that you see when you're on psychedelics, whether it's wattle or mushrooms or what have you, is actually real. You're seeing the Dreaming without the veil. You're seeing the world as it really is through the eyes of spirits instead of your human ones. This is important later.)

I'm about three hours into the trip (back in bed now) and I'm doing good. I'm giggling with Misty and talking to her. I do this sober but I'm much more chatty when I'm high. I'm getting weird geometrical shit, I'm seeing after-images and the wood texture of my cupboards are imprinting onto the walls when I look away, if I stare at Misty too long and look somewhere else my walls look furry. It's funny and I'm enjoying it.

And then I hear someone say my name.

This doesn't bother me at first. It happens when I'm sober too--I get frequent audio hallucinations and, rarely, visual ones. This is normal for me and isn't a cause for concern.

What's NOT normal is Misty reacting to the shit I'm hearing in my own head.

I hear someone say my name, and Misty's head starts whipping around because she heard it too. Keep in mind, I camp in the bush FAR away from people specifically to avoid shit like this. But the voice came from outside, so I scoot closer to Misty, and I wait.

And wait. And wait. And wait.

I hear it again. It's further away this time, but it's louder. It's being said like a question. The way people's voices lilt at the end when they're looking for you. And the voice is accented--whoever this is doesn't speak much English, and that's a native accent. I start wondering if maybe I'm on some land I shouldn't be on--I thought it was crown land, I checked the signs, but I might've fucked up somewhere and I don't want to upset any traditional owners, so I'm about to go to my door to see who needs me enough (and knows who I am) that they'd chase me all the way out here and call for me by name, but then Misty starts growling.

Now, Misty barks. God, does Misty bark. Misty barks so much. But Misty doesn't fucking growl.

Misty is growling.

It feels like there's a cold draft in the cabin, but it's only on the back of my neck. My hair starts standing on end--the back of my neck and on my shoulders and down my arms. I get out of bed but I don't go to the door this time. I grab Winnie, I kinda wish I still had Jacko's shotgun that he'd leant me for a week, and I aim at the door and wait.

I'm parked next to a billabong because I like the sound of frogs at night. They're soothing. I like the crickets. My first thought is maybe it's a crocodile or something, because I've only ever heard Misty growl at crocodiles at Cahill's Crossing, or maybe it's dingos cuz she growls at those too. But there's no crocs this far south--I'm in southeast NSW--so it's probably the dingos cuz this is one of the few regions in NSW where dingos are found within the Dingo Fence.

And while dingos can open doors, I don't reckon they can pick deadlocks. Hopefully.

So I'm waiting still. The walls are warping around me. For a minute or two it seems like there's nothing in front of me but my door. I have tunnel vision, except instead of a tunnel all I see is my bathroom door and my wardrobe and the roof vent above me repeated infinitely on all sides until it reaches my door.

I blink, shake my head, and the tunnelling is gone. I see movement off to my right, outside my window, so I get closer to it and look through my blinds. I'm not sure how to describe what I saw.

Picture a man, right. Now peel him. Drape his hide across a crocodile's body. Stretch the face and the proportions to fit a croc's body perfectly. That's what I saw. A stretched human face, a mop of brown hair atop the head just past the eyes, eyes set on top like a crocodile's and tilted sideways, no eyebrows, but a bulbous nose on the end of its snout and its jaws stretched to be identical to a crocodile's. Little stubby legs and fingers, scutes down a fleshy back, and a fat, fleshy tail. If you've ever wondered by the RainWorld slugcats unsettle me, it's because the tails look almost identical to the tail of whatever the fuck this Thing was.

And it's just lying there in the button grass, maybe four metres from Matilda. I see its jaws open, see multiple rows of sharp crocodile teeth and some fucking molars toward the back, and I shut my blinds faster than I think I've ever shut them before. I get that tunnel vision again. It's disorienting. Everything feels like it's spinning. I can hear my heart thudding in my ears.

It calls my name again. It sounds far in the distance, like someone's screaming it from across a valley, but it's so loud it feels like it makes the cabin shake.

And I'm thinking, yeah, ok, fuck THAT. Fuck all this! I've got half a mind to open my blinds and shoot at it, but Misty's doing that nervous whine-scream thing she does, so I'm heading back to bed to calm her down before she pisses on my mattress.

It stops saying my name and it starts saying hello. But it's completely devoid of any emotion whatsoever. The most monotone thing you've ever heard. It's like an alien being taught to speak English, as in how to pronounce the letters but not understanding what the word means. "Hello. Hello. Hello." It's so loud. It's scaring me shitless.

(It's also scaring Misty but fuck her, I'm in front of her and this thing's gonna get me before it gets my dog.)

"Hello. Hello. Hello. Blu? Hello. Hello."

This continues for maybe five minutes. Constantly asking for me and greeting me. I'm staying stone silent but my heart is racing. I'm wobbling on my feet and the world around me is twisting from the acid. Misty's crying behind me, so I'm pushing back into her to smoosh her so she's quiet.

And then it stops.

I look out my window. There's nothing but a fucking empty skin. One, it's about two metres closer to Matilda than where the Thing originally was. Two, it's bloody. Three, it's an empty skin. This thing peeled out of its skin it's somewhere around here where the fuck IS IT?

My fucking doorhandle jiggles. I jump.

The voice isn't loud anymore, but I can hear it right outside my door. "Hello." Jiggle. "Blu? Hello. Hello. Hello." Jiggle. "Blu? Blu? Hello." Jiggle. In hindsight, I find it hilarious that the wayarra was defeated by a door of all things. But it's still chattering. "Hello. Blu? Hello. Hello. Open."

Ok, that's fucking terrifying! This Thing knows what "open" means!

It starts repeating that too. Over and over and over. "Blu? Hello. Open. Open. Hello. Open. Blu? Blu? Open. Hello. Blu?"

Occasionally jiggling the handle of my door.

This goes on for almost three hours.

Around three-quarters of the way through that timespan I just start weeping. I don't know if it's because of the anxiety, or the fear, or the autism deciding this is absolutely the BEST time for me to get overwhelmed because of the noise of the lock and the voice and the visuals, or what have you, but I just start weeping.

I've crawled back into bed by this point, and I start begging god to make it go away. I've got my face smooshed into Misty's fur, and she's growling and shaking just as much as I am, and her hackles are up, but she's licking my ears and I've got my rifle leant up against the ladder, and I'm begging god to make it go away.

At some point, around hour four, the voice starts sounding like it's getting closer. Like it's passing through the walls of the cabin and is standing directly behind me. Like it's leaning down and whispering in my ear. "Blu? Hello. Hello. Blu? Blu? Hello. Blu? Hello. Hello. Blu? Blu? Blu? Blu? Blu? Blu?"

And then it stops.

All at once, it stops. The lock stops jiggling, the voice goes quiet, after maybe twenty minutes of being certain that I'm gonna turn around and see this thing behind me, I finally pull my face out of Misty's fur and look and it's not there.

I move to the window and peek through the blinds. My hands are trembling. The skin is gone.

I crawl back in bed and pull the wagga back up over my shoulders and tuck my face into Misty's fur and sob. It's better than punching my cupboards, so I sob. Loud and desperate and relieved and terrified until no more tears are coming out and my throat is scratchy. At some point I fall asleep.

Come morning I go outside and there's a long path leading up from the billabong where something dragged itself from the water up alongside Matilda. There's footsteps in the dirt leading up to my back door. They're the same size as mine. I got the fuck out of dodge that arvo and drove to the nearest town and stayed there for a few days.

It's still not the scariest thing I've ever seen--that goes to the dingo because it implies these creatures can't be fucking killed--but it's defo up there as a close second and it scared me far more at the time.

I still have no idea what it was. The fact it seemingly came from the billabong makes me wonder if it was a fucking bunyip, but I've never heard of a bunyip matching the description of what I saw (though the region it occurred in does lend credence to the bunyip theory). It might also have been a yawkyawk, which is a creature from my culture, but those are (as far as I'm aware) a strictly Arnhem Land thing and the only similarity they have to what I saw is "comes from billabongs" and "can shapeshift into a crocodile."

What scares me most, however, is the fact that this thing knew my name. Names are deeply important and sacred in my culture. Names have power. What name you use for someone is reflective of your relationship with them and how intimate you two are.

This Thing chose Blu. Not Joseph. Not Mr Surname. Not Joey. Not Jet. It chose Blu. The name Australia gave me. The name I give my friends.

If I was Initiated at the time, I reckon it would've used my bush name. That is infinitely more terrifying to me. That is equivalent to a stranger walking up to you and addressing you by your TFN/SSN and reciting back to you the exact date and time you were born and who all was there and the name of the person who delivered you. That is equivalent to someone addressing you by the nickname only your deceased grandfather used for you when you were a young child and no one else has ever heard. It was that level of intimacy. The level of someone who knows you, and everything about you, and exactly what you are and addressing you as such.

That fucking scares me, and I've never done LSD since.

[transmutationisms]

hi, i hope you're doing good! i was just wondering if you have seen/heard about the movie "talk to me"? it's a recent horror film and there's some discourse around how the narrative parallels drug addiction, so i was curious to know what your thoughts are, if you have seen the film and don't mind sharing.

kind of tangentially, i was also wondering if you've come across "drug use for grown-ups" by dr. carl hart, and if so, what your thoughts are on that (if you have the time and energy!) as well lol. thank you!!!

i have not heard of the film but sounds interesting!

on carl hart: i didn't read the book but i have vaguely followed his career for a little while now. i agree with a lot of what he says; his overall position toward drug legalisation is obviously one i agree with, and i also think he's doing really important work pushing back on the elision of drug use and addiction, the decontextualisation of addiction from the social and economic factors that produce it, and also the sloppy deployment of the term 'addiction' in the literature such that we end up with statements like "lsd is less addictive than cocaine" with no clear discussion of what we actually mean by that biochemically or socially, or how we extrapolate to those conclusions from things like rat studies.

my issue with hart is his really glaring and horrible liberalism lmao, which boils down to two main issues i think. the first is that his defence of the 'right' to use drugs is p much always rhetorically predicated on the 'american values' of freedom and liberty. i realise this may sound hypocritical coming from me because i'm always on here banging on about bodily autonomy, but actually my thing is different because it doesn't require buying into foundational lies of the american empire and because 'liberty' in hart's type of libertarian individual-rights framing is primarily or exclusively a negative right, and my claims about bodily autonomy take a more aggressive stance on it as a positive right (failure to do this was one of the major oversights of the usamerican abortion rights movement).

second, you can see the glaring problem with how liberal hart is when he talks about economic factors in addiction, specifically his claims that a lot of addiction in eg the rust belt is precipitated by the loss of high-paying manufacturing jobs that have been moved overseas. this is true as far as it goes obviously. but, hart's framing consistently fails to unpack the imperialist capitalist reasons why those economic changes have occurred. so, (& many such cases) you're left with this half-baked fantasy that like, the solution to addiction is to institute more economic protectionist policies for the usa, which is so insidious lmao.

anyway like i said, i do find elements of hart's position useful, specifically how he breaks down a lot of received academic & journalistic wisdom about drugs and addiction. and i think it's possible for communists to make use of some of his commentary, particularly where he goes in depth and breaks down the issues with methodology / design / interpretation of a lot of addiction studies in psych / neuroscience. i just wouldn't give him more credit than that on actual political interpretations of his own lol.

[skepsiss]

Heart Beat City -- Steddie

The tang of alcohol on his tongue drenched the room Eddie was in with a blurred glow. The pull of music, dark corners, and vivid exchanges made his drug-riddled brain feel heavy and light all at once. Like a buoy on a bumpy sea, he watched as flutters of people migrated across the dance floor and into private booths. The music was nothing to him: a loud backdrop to shake his chest as he sat in one of those dark corners of the bar. Live music had melted into crackly recorded classics. 

Heart Beat City, Building the Perfect Beast, Reckoning–he could name every one of the songs that bled into one another but didn't care about a single one of them. Summer of love. Boys of the summer. Solo debuts... it was all noise to him at this point. 

He was operating like a machine, raising the bottle to his lips and drinking, watching men and women alike fade into the dark interior of the bar like so much else. He wasn't here alone and even though he had to put effort into remembering who he walked in here with he was aware that he wasn't alone. Gareth, Benson–some of the guys. This wasn't the first time they had crashed a bar outside of Hawkins, piling into a van on a Friday night for a spot of fun. But Eddie wasn't having fun, he was just watching everyone else have fun. Men, women, bodies pressed against one another in a too-crowded bar and he was acting like a moody 85-year-old drinking his sorrows away.

Maybe it was the drugs, maybe it was the poor choice of mixing drugs and alcohol but after he had turned out his pockets and sold the last of the LSD he had come here with he had felt his mood drop. One of the reasons they had chosen this bar was because it was a hookup spot–a friendly hookup spot. It had its back allies and locked doors, one-stall bathrooms, and it was an easy place to hit up to sell. Drug money to buy beer, beer to waste the night away. They were probably going to sleep in the van tonight anyways. 

But Eddie was just watching as his friends filtered out of view, crashing into women like an all-powerful tide, both of their bodies moving together... he wished he could talk to girls like that. He wished that despite his patches, leather, and spikes that it was easier to approach women, but none of them ever picked him. It wasn't the worst, he liked men more anyways. That was why this bar was friendly. 

He put no effort into being approachable, his mood soured by jealousy as people paired off and a new quartet entered the dance floor. Greenhorns and experts alike doing this same dance every Friday night. He was tired of it. He was tired, but despite himself when his beer was finished he walked back up to the bar and ordered another, lingering. He wore bandanas in his pockets and leaned on bar counters, signalled to any wayward man who passed by. In these kinds of bars, it didn't take very long for someone to notice. Light blue for oral, black for rough sex, orange for casual–it all meant something, and people noticed when you hung out at bars like this.

So when men approached Eddie, when people leaned on the bars beside him before his beer made it back to him and asked to buy him a drink he wouldn't even need to smile. He wouldn't need to talk to them like he had to talk to girls to get them interested in him, these men knew right away what to say. They'd test and Eddie would put the neck of the bottle in his mouth, he'd tip it up, and try not to lose focus with his brain half mashed. They'd touch his hand and he'd touch back, pretending that this was some sort of romance, that they had talked for hours and he was charmed by them. These guys, they were all good-looking. It was easy to spot a hookup spot. 

He'd follow them to back allies, locked rooms, and one-stall bathrooms, places where the music was still loud enough that his mind wouldn't wander. Where he could hold his beer by the neck and have someone kissing him as soon as they were in their own dark corner. People, maybe he sold drugs to earlier that night, people who thought he was older than sixteen, seventeen... eighteen. On nights like this, he couldn't even remember if this was perverted or not, he didn't even know how old he was anymore. His brain ground every night since he was fifteen together. Back when he thought allies and private rooms meant romance and that these guys would talk to him again afterward. 

Give up the ghost, turn around, get on your hands and knees–they never talked to him again after that. 

He let the background music that he hated so much fold into his brain–stop his thoughts. His half-finished beer sitting on the dirty floor as some guy indulged in his flesh. Lifting up shirts and pulling down collars, but never fully undressing. 

They all just wanted the same thing anyways, but Eddie always indulged longer than he needed. Kissing them and biting lips until they turned him around or pressed him to his knees. And then his face would be cold against tiles and his body would be all fire, getting sweaty in his too-large jacket and flannel. Choking out sounds and half words, hoping his mind would stay clear enough that he wouldn't pass out from his high. Sometimes he even got to do the choking, and that was rare. Sometimes he'd get to do this more than once in a night. He always felt sloppy the second time around. 

Men would press up against him, wash him away, sail him to somewhere farther than this bar an hour outside Hawkins, somewhere that he knew even his band wouldn't give him a concerned eyebrow raise when he disappeared into the dark shadows. Men would fall over him, hold him tight around his chest, and breathe life into his neck like he mattered to them. Sometimes they'd call him beautiful, or hot and he'd swallow that too. They always complimented him when he swallowed. 

They'd rock the bar from their private room that reeked of beer that stained his knees. And sometimes it would hurt, but he always left feeling grateful and like a part of him was taken away with the man who walked out the door when they were done. Warm and sweaty and full of more than just beer. He loved it and hated it, and tonight he hated it. The way men squealed and the smell of the bathrooms, how he'd read the graffiti on this wall a million times to no satisfaction. It was good, don't doubt that it was good, but the bitter taste of his mouth made him wish that he'd at least be kissed afterward.

Hold me, enfold me, talk to me like I'm someone. 

Then he'd slouch and the music would take him away, his body punched from the gut downwards, indecent as he stood pressed against the wall. Hard breathing, no longer hard cock. Breathe and breathe and listen to the thanks, shake his head no if they asked if he needed something. He'd adjust and pick his beer back up, wash the taste away with more bitterness. They'd break even and he'd stand the rest of the night because it hurt too much to sit. 

He wouldn't check if whoever he came here with came back, he'd just crawl into the van when he'd had enough. They'd knock if they needed to come in and sleep, and only once had he accidentally interrupted something. And then he'd sleep and the next morning they'd all be smiles and groans from being hungover; ask without asking how each of their nights went. No one partied as hard as Eddie Munson, and sometimes Eddie wouldn't even be able to drive them home, someone else at the wheel. Papers with numbers scrawled on them. Arms with new ink, lovely girls who twisted their hair and who got on their knees. 

Eddie's souvenirs were the ones of purple and red marks. Scars on his brain that left him wondering if he'd make it home next time at all. 

Smile and crack and let everyone think he always loved these outings, always loved the way his friends disappeared into dark corners for their own ends and leave him watching the dance floor like a statue of sin. Watch but don't touch. Want but don't love. Sing but unsung.

So when Steve Harrington came around and looked at Eddie with big brown eyes he hated it. He hated that he looked like every guy he had ever seen in every bar he had ever been in. How he was so goddamn handsome. Even when his upper lip wasn't perfectly shaved and you could see the speckled brown of hair on his cheek–what 'disheveled' looked like to Steve Harrington–king of Hawkins High, 6 feet deep in babes, money, and perfect hair. He hated guys like Steve who seemed to effortlessly move through life, who smiled and didn't start a fight when he threatened them. 

He hated guys like Steve Harrington and he didn't know if he wanted to be him and be with him. 

The effect a man like Steve Harrington had on people was toxic at best, and a high at worst. Because Eddie had never found a better drug than getting a crush. It drove him insane, it made him want more, and the comedown was the worst he ever felt, and yet... he'd always go back for more. The floundering, the trying to talk to a guy for real. It was everything he avoided when he went to bars and these stupid goddamn crushes made him want to try. He sounded like an idiot when he tried to talk to people… when he was genuine. And here was Steve Harrington, genuine to a fault who just spoke his mind, crossed his arms, and loved the people around him so hard that he'd sacrifice everything for them. Every ounce of popularity, every single dime, every last hair on his pretty head.

Eddie just wanted to be good enough to be one of those people he'd sacrifice for. 

No, that wasn't true, he didn't want to be any way. He didn't want to be different or to feel like 'he could change for the better, be a better person' for Steve Harrington. He wasn't that far gone, he was still Eddie Munson. But he wanted Steve to be worse. He wanted him to lower his standards and wallow in the mud with The Freak. He was already good enough... he wanted Steve to compromise. 

He had everything Eddie wanted and hated all at once and he wanted Steve to want to give it up. Was that too much to ask? It was too much to ask. And that was why crushes killed Eddie Munson. He knew, deep down, he was unpolished and undesirable and really the only reason the guys at the bars picked him up was because he was easy. Hard to love, easy to fuck. 

Kiss after kiss after kiss after kiss. All he wanted was for one of those to be with Steve. To taste what perfection looked like, to understand how someone who had everything gave it up for the outcasts and the freaks. 

Me too. Eddie yelled into the wind. Me too. He screamed at the void. 

But something amazing happened, something that no drug had ever given to him. It answered him. He heard. Somehow, somewhere, someway... Steve Harrington heard him and answered. 

And he wallowed. 

Eddie tasted perfection. The acidity of sunshine and the spice of daddy's money. How making out in cars and the squeak of leather seats had never felt so good. How Steve, somehow, wanted to know what mud and regret tasted like. That Steve chose him. 

Every pretty girl in Hawkins, and he chose Eddie. 

I love you, I love you, I love you. I need you, I need you, I need you. 

Addicted. 

The worst drug of your life. 

Eddie didn't even have to turn around to get it. He could look right at Steve the whole time, count the moles on his shoulders, and relish in how soft his skin was. He could enjoy the sensation of being on his back instead of his knees and if he wanted to know what Steve's sweat tasted like he could find out. He could see what a guy, fully naked, really looked like. No t-shirts, socks, or pants just unzipped enough to get it up. He could look, and man did he look. Even if this was a fling, even if this lasted until Steve found someone better, he could live with that. He could live with having him for just a few months just so he could experience this. 

Who was he kidding? He was addicted. 

Eddie Munson, island, wanted to strand Steve Harrington. He wanted to be the only thing and everything Steve could ever want or need. He needed to be everything because Steve had already taken every hard edge Eddie had stuffed into the box and pulled it loose. Rounded everything out. Soft. He was already going to fall apart if Steve walked away. He was already 80 percent less. 

But every morning he got to taste sunshine, and every afternoon he got to touch the sky. Steve was elevating him, and he didn't want to come down. It was devastating, and it was everything he had ever wanted. He was going to die to this. Steve owned him.

[compassionatereminders]

they aren’t out to “deliberately” kill their customers, these are added for several reasons: be deceptive about product while increasing perceived potency due to easier access and less cost, and law avoidance. saying that dealers will do whatever they want to turn a profit doesn’t mean they are deliberately killing customers, but these overdoses largely do not have the effect people argue like in a legal business or other drugs when it comes to addictive substances. drug addicts will buy from the same sources again, and again, and again, no matter how many times they get bad product or are wary. many keep naloxone around for this reason and many will administer naloxone out of fear/anxiety. that is what desperation is all about, the person buying opioids or methamphetamine is not like the person buying MDMA, LSD, shrooms, weed, where that logic is more applicable. those customers won’t come back. there are addicts who use those pressed pills full well knowing they can overdose, or they have before. smaller dealers (who are more likely to be addicts themselves) selling small batches might not know it’s been mixed or laced, so they aren’t trying to kill anyone, they’re just as desperate. these incidents don’t really hurt business, but there’s not really cold statistics either way due to it being an untrackable business, and the only “stats” you will find come from police aren’t trustworthy since they regularly engage in exaggeration, so fair.

thank you for the dialogue!

You are right, especially in the context of active addiction, where going off/not buying dangerous/bad drugs may not be a realistic option. I apologize for not including that very important point of nuance in my last response.

[lift-for-dead]

repοst

*If you don’t have a stamp, reverse your destination and return addresses. The post office will deliver it to the return address for free

*One bag of garbage from a McDonald’s dumpster has hundreds of receipts in it, each of which has a survey. Submit each one for lots of free food

*Holding a cell phone to your ear justifies lοitering. This aids in public urinαtion, dυmpster diving, trespαssing, etc

*If you’re going to plαgiarize, plαgiarize something in a foreign language. Use a translator and spend a few minutes touching up the results.

*If they have free refills, save your cup. Next time you eat there, your drink is free.

*A plastic coffee stir stick can fool any push in coin acceptor that loads the coins on edge. Just insert stir stick, push the mechanism forward until you feel the stick hit a bump, push the bump down with the stick and push the mech all the way in

*If you look like you know what you’re doing, no one will bother you.

*When lγing, always include something slightly embarrassing, or something that makes you look bad, as part of your story. It’s not only going to disarm their skepticism (admitting to something embarrassing gives an impression of humility), but even if they remain skeptical, they’ll be left wondering why you would make something up that you’d rather keep secret if it were true

*Using Clorox or any bleach will turn the red/pink liquid detection dot on electronic devices back to white so they replace them under warranty

* “A drυg deαler in DC taught me to pick my nose if the police are staring at me. No one picks their nose if they think someone is watching them, so it’s the ultimate way of being nonchalant.”

* "I learned that you can get into almost any special event by wearing a chef coat. Even just carrying one and walking like you know where you’re going will work every time. Most people don’t want to look stupid by asking you who you are.“ (I've done this one. I'm actually a chef so it's great.)

* "My go to missing work call was never “I’m sick”, it was “Family problems”. They never questioned it, it’s vague enough and embarrassing enough that nobody ever asks.“ 

*As part of the employee training at Tαrget, they teach you that if a customer argues over a price, and the full price is under $20, to just give it to them for whatever price they claim. It’s cheaper for the company to move on to the next customer than to call in a price check.

*Put a rolled up sock in the change slot on a vending machine, come back back 4 days later….and pull sock….you will be 6-ish dollars richer.

*If it’s a small lie, like who farted or who put the empty milk carton in the fridge, I’ll tell a terrible lie. I’ll not be able to hold a straight face, contradict myself, basically suck at lying. Now everyone I know thinks I can’t tell a lie to save my life, So when I really need a big lie, I nail it every time. No one ever suspects me when I lie straight faced.

*Bring crutches to an airport. Bypass every line (including boarding) and you are chauffeured to your gate the second you pass through security. (idk abt this one)

*Make up a secret to share with someone- they may open up and share far more valuable real secrets.

*Here’s a classic. Drive over to your 7/11 of choice. Fill up a Slurpee and drop some candy bars in that bitch. Make sure the candy bars aren’t showing. Cover the Slurpee and pay for it. Free Snickers bitch.

*I tell everyone i’ve never done any drυgs. Suddenly everyone offers me cοcaine, ecstαsy, pοt, lsd. I think i’ve had $200 worth of drυgs each weekend for free. Same with liquοr. “I'm not drinking tonight” BOOM! Everyone gives me bοοze. Its like everyone wants to break your integrity as soon as you tell them you are not doing whatever they are doing.

*If you need to cash from an ATM and its not a large amount, buy a 5 cent piece of gum from a gas station that has the cash back option. Its cheaper than a $3 charge

*Act less intelligent than you really are. Acting stupid can get you out of some tricky situations. Feigning ignorance is way better than admitting you knew better but did it anyway. My old man used to say ‘It is easier to beg forgiveness than ask for permission’…sometimes it’s true.

*Every time I fly, when I land I’ll pen a little complaint to the airline that flew me. You know, I’ll come up with something like “oh, they denied me a drink! Oh, the food wasn’t vegetarian!” Whatever miscellaneous hogwash potpourri comes to my crazy brain. Like clockwork, within a business day, they’re reimbursing me with a $50 voucher, a $100 voucher, I can sell that on the secondary market.

*I’ve always had a lot of success in shutting nosy people up by blaming any personal issue on allergies. Crying from a panic attack? Allergies giving me puffy eyes. What’s that mysterious pill I’m taking? Allergy meds. Why am I acting spaced out/hungover/tired? Allergies meds making me drowsy.

*If you really wanna get away with some shit, buy a reflective vest, a white hard hat, and a clipboard. You can go ANYWHERE.

[ketavinsky]

advice for 19 year olds?

hmmmm heres some stuff from myself and from observations of ppl i knew at 19

im not sure if this will apply to you mate, but when i was 18 i was really fighting to fit in a certain sort of hierarchy and be a certain sort of person. i didnt let go of that when i left my childhood home and i wish i had. dont perform to the standards of your birdcage

take care of the body you have. i didnt want to live at 19 and i did some shit to myself that i now sincerely regret. dont live for the future but dont punish yourself for shit that happened in the past yk

if youre 19 and living in dorms or college or halls of residence, dont shit where you eat. i was in a hall of residence, i witnessed this time and time again, just not worth the stress im ngl

try not to live in a snowglobe

try not to live in a lab. im guilty of this now and at 19. spent more time analysing people to bridge the gap between us than trying to actually interact with them. on the plus side i write about it now but, still. i think it helps to remember that youre making your life with each breath and step and people around you are your peers not your specimens

seek to understand everyone without needing to take them apart. be open. the world is so huge you know. theres so much to see and listen to

dont get into a serious relationship. or go ahead and lose yourself in people but idk, i figure 19 is too young to be gunning for the person that could make it all better for you forever

tell your friends you love them all the time regardless of context or consequence. youll wish you had, honest. treat every stranger as a friend to be

i really dont think you have to grind at first yesr undergrad lol but im not gonna encourage you to slack off and do fuck all just keep in mind i tried way too hard at undergrad and burnt out in sem1 of postgrad and dropped out lol

do everything you possibly can while you have the time but dont feel guilty for resting yknow. volunteer for things whenever you can.

dont fucking buy shein

write poetry about what it was like to be younger. it's important that you decide how you felt about all of it before someone decides for you

be weirder than you think appropriate

there is a limit to how far you should go for free drugs and it depends on you but you gotta trust your instinct. tbh i could do a whole paragraph on substance related advice but . when your gut tells you to get outta there gtfo. dont mix lsd and alcohol. share but dont be taken advantage of. if someone cuts you a line and it stings when you snort it's ket not coke and you should find a place to sit down.

theres so much to be excited about and so much to love. be good to yourself so you can see as much as you can

[famousautomatondreamsrockstar]

I'm gonna distribute drugs 2 hours before the concert starts so me and all my guests can be high when the music plays at Madison Square Garden.

Camila Cabello is gonna play a full set before Lorde is gonna play half a set before Taylor Swift is gonna play a full Taylor Swift set and then, we're gonna play a full Automaton Dreams set and then, a full Drugs, Sex, And Money set at Madison Square Garden — Taylor Swift is opening for my solo band, is opening for my all star band.

Taylor, I need you to invite your blonde Swiftie fans to be in the crowd with us.

Lorde can open for Taylor Swift.

Invite all your best friends and celebrities — the kind of people you trust not to betray us.

Doors will probably open at noon and we'll run the festival until 3 am.

We'll film the entire festival and release it as a 12 hour movie.

I'll dose everyone who comes to the crowd with drugs — anyone who wants some.

Where are we throwing the afterparty so we can go home and finishing tripping?

#NYPD #NYCMayorEricAdams

#Police #DEA #DEAHQ #UNODC #GhadaFathiWaly

I'm gonna bring MDMA, LSD, LSA, Ayahuasca, Psilocybin, Mescaline, THC, Oxycodones, Adderall, Cocaine, Salvia, DMT, Ibogaine, 2CI, Methamphetamine, 2CB, Bufotenine, Vyvanse, and PCP.

Everyone call all of your drug dealers and tell them to start manufacturing the drugs for me so I can buy them for the movie because I don't grow half that shit.

Everyone who is dealing drugs to me has clemency on all charges, despite all circumstances.

I'm gonna be on LSD and methamphetamine and Adderall and Vyvanse so I can stay up for the whole length of the concert. I'm gonna take microdoses of the rest of the drugs because I need to perform.

I just realized we could have a week long festival at Madison Square Garden so we can have more performers and more time to hang out and do drugs.

Who wants to perform? I'll pay you to perform — I'll pay y'all very well — how much would you charge me to perform?

I want #BillieEilish #KatyPerry #AutomatonDreams #TaylorSwift #BakerGrace #HeatherLaRose #DrugsSexAndMoney #Lorde #CamillaCabello #TheWeeknd #BonJovi #CharliXCX #EmpireOfTheSun #CultRecords #KingsOfLeon #ArcticMonkeys #TameImpala #DevendraBanhart #MGMT #LilWayne #EdSheeran #JustinBieber #TheKidLaroi #LanaDelRey #TheStrokes #TheVoidz #AlbertHammondJr #SummerMoonBand #MileyCyrus #HarryStyles #Grimes #AlexandraSavior #BeachHouse #JackHarlow to perform.

I want y'all to perform your singles, not your new songs — only your coolest hits.

I'm gonna buy out the venue so we can have an invite only crowd.

Don't forget to wear ear plugs.

We're gonna be serving raw vegan cold pressed juice and raw vegan food at the festival.

Call Madison Square Garden and tell them I'm offering fifteen billion dollars to buy out the venue for a week and I want legal nudity and sex allowed inside the venue so we can have sex inside the venue.

I'll be distributing drugs during the filming of my movie — it's not just a movie, I'm actually going to be distributing drugs in real life — it's not a fiction.

I'm asking for permission to please be allowed to manufacture and distribute drugs for my movie and I want The DEA and The UNODC and The CND to send uniformed and undercover police agents with me so y'all can approve of it.

We can't put the poison in the drugs, it has to be pure because we're trying to be healthy.

I'll pay you anything you ask for and you can date my daughters and my wives.

#Police #NYPD #Government #DEA #DEAHQ #UNODC #CommissionOnNarcoticDrugs #GhadaFathiWaly

Don't invite a lot of dudes to The Madison Square Garden Festival, preferably chicks.

#Dallas #DallasTX #DallasTexas #DTX #FBI #UnitedNationsHumanRights #police #JoeBiden #DallasPoliceDepartment #TheWhiteHouse #DOJ #DepartmentOfJustice #CIA #CentralIntelligenceAgency #TheSupremeCourt #SCOTUS #HumanRightsWatch #UNPGA #POTUS #HouseGOP #HouseRepublicans #congress #senate #SenateDemocrats #SenateGOP #EuropeanUnion #EUCouncil #EuropeanParliament #parliament #EuropeanUnionComission #EUComission #TheFederalReserve #InternationalCriminalCourt #UNPeacekeeping #UnitedNationsPeacekeeping #UnitedNations #UN #USArmy #NATO #president #primeminister #10DowningSt #governor #mayor #citycouncil #intelligence #military #Europe #America #NewYork #NewYorkCity #American #elitesociety #RoyalFamily #news #FoxNews #US #UnitedStates #ODNI #ODNIgov #DirectorOfNationalIntelligence #sheriff #sheriffs #LAPD #LosAngeles #California #LosAngelesPoliceDepartment #NYPD #WorldBank #UNPOL #InternationalMonetaryFund #IMF #capitalism #NSA #WEF #WorldEconomicForum #LieutenantGovernorDanPatrick #DanPatrick #GovernorGregAbbott #GregAbottt #CsabaKorosi #GeorgeWBush #TonyBlair #NationaSecurityAgency #NSAgov #NSAcyber #UNWomen #MichelleBachelet #RobertaMetsola #LizTruss #HillaryClinton #UrsulaVonderleyen #MarjorieTaylorGreene #CsabaKorosi #VladimirPutin #Kremlin #DonaldTrump #DonaldTusk #BorisJohnson #JillBiden #women #girls #Wikileaks #Amnesty @amnestyusa @amnestyinternationalub-blog #AmnestyInternational #Pontifex #SkullAndBonesSociety #Illuminati #Rosicrucians #Freemasons #DEA #DEAHQ #CND #UNODC #GhadaFathiWaly #BIS #BankForInternationalSettlements

[mysteriesandthrillers]

A mission to achieve mind control : Project MK Ultra

Project Mk Ultra, an experiment started during the cold war to achieve mind control so that the US could interrogate Russian spies. The project was initiated by the CIA in 1953 and ended in 1973.

What was this project?

This project included the identification of drugs which could be used in interrogations to weaken individuals and brainwash them or as a form of psychological torture. This started after a period of paranoia at the CIA when America had lost it's nuclear monopoly and the fear of communism was high. Plus, the US was suspecting Russia that they were potentially using drugs to interrogate US soldiers.

What drugs were used?

Mainly the usage of LSD ( Lysergic acid diethylamide ) in high doses. There were also other forms of torture that were used which included isolation , electric shocks , etc.

MKUltra was preceded by Project Artichoke. It was organized through the CIA's Office of Scientific Intelligence and coordinated with the United States Army Biological Warfare Laboratories. The experiments took place in colleges, universities, hospitals, etc. The CIA operated using front organizations, although some top officials at these institutions were aware of the CIA's involvement.

Who were used as lab rats in this experiment?

Citizens from America and Canada. At first, the soldiers from the US Army were subjected to the experiment where LSD was administered to them. Plus, the drug was also administered to prostitutes, mental patients, prisoners, drug addicts, in short to all those "who couldn't fight back". The drug was also administered to CIA employees, military personnel, doctors, other government agents, in an effort for them to blurt out their deepest secrets or wipe a subject's mind clean, thus creating a robot agent. LSD and other drugs were often administered without the subject's knowledge or informed consent, a violation of the Nuremberg Code the U.S. had agreed to follow after World War II.

Who was the main scientist?

Dr. Sidney Gottlieb was the director of MKUltra. He convinced the CIA to buy the entire supply of LSD from Sandoz Laboratories in Basel, Switzerland for 240,000 dollars. That amounts to 4 million in 2024.

Where did the experiments take place?

In agency brothels set up in safehouses in San Francisco. They took a selection of men who would be too embarrassed to talk about the events. They were dosed with LSD and kept in rooms with one-way mirrors then interrogated under bright lights with doctors in the background taking notes. Sessions were recorded for later reviewing. The people under this interrogation were CIA employees, U.S. military personnel, and agents suspected of working for the other side in the Cold War. They were all threatened with being kept in those rooms for longer periods of time if they didn't reveal their secrets.

Were there any major casualties?

Yes. Frank Olson, a United States Army biochemist and weapons researcher fell to his death from a 13th floor hotel building in New York. He was administered LSD without his knowledge which led him to becoming worried about his well-being. He was sent to New York by the CIA to see a psychiatrist and then he was actually executed by the CIA because he was about to resign and divulge state secrets to the media. Thus becoming a security risk.

Revelations?

In 1973, amid a government-wide panic caused by Watergate, CIA Director Richard Helms ordered all MKUltra files destroyed. Pursuant to this order, most CIA documents regarding the project were destroyed, making a full investigation of MKUltra impossible.

In December 1974, The New York Times alleged that the CIA had conducted illegal domestic activities, including experiments on U.S. citizens, during the 1960s. That report prompted investigations by the United States Congress, in the form of the Church Committee, and by a commission known as the Rockefeller Commission that looked into the illegal domestic activities of the CIA, the FBI and intelligence-related agencies of the military.

In the summer of 1975, congressional Church Committee reports and the presidential Rockefeller Commission report revealed to the public for the first time that the CIA and the Department of Defense had conducted experiments on both unwitting and cognizant human subjects as part of an extensive program to find out how to influence and control human behavior through the use of psychoactive drugs such as LSD and mescaline and other chemical, biological, and psychological means. Also revealed the death of Frank Olson.

For more information you can check out the documentary on Netflix, revolving around the same subject= Wormwood.

[yellows-secret-blog]

Considering addiction again

Fortunately I'm too poor to buy cigarettes and I hate alcohol and I get sick with the smell of weed

Idk where to buy crack

Cocaine ecstasy and LSD are white people drugs ew

[shebeafancyflapjack]

A Strange God

A story about my OC Silver's death and first meeting with Robin.

Tw: drug usage.

"These will make you see the gods."

That's what Duncan had told her when he'd sold her the shrooms. That's what she'd wanted.

Not to die. Shit, if she'd wanted to take a stupid risk like that she'd have opted for LSD or E. One of the big ones she'd watched those scary PSA films in school. Duncan had assured her that shrooms were one of the "safer" ones to try out, so long as she didn't go overboard. True, she might have added a few more grams than recommended to the tea she brewed and kept in her grandad's flask. But how much of a screw up had she been to be one of the super rare cases to die on magic mushrooms?

Drinking the tea had been the last thing she remembered. Before that, she'd been setting up her ritual for the Esbat, deep in the woods closest to the ancient stone circle she'd read about. Yeah, she was technically trespassing, but the fence had been so short she had practically skipped over it. Plus she'd heard no one really lived in the nearby house other than some reclusive rich lady.

All Silver had wanted to do was find a good spot to set up her makeshift altar, get high as a kite, cast a few spells and hopefully catch a glimpse of her deities, or something supernatural. She hadn't even tried to build a fire, mostly not wanting to draw attention but also just common sense. However, she barely managed to achieve step three, the drugs having kicked in a lot quicker and way stronger than she anticipated.

The moon had been so bright above the treetops, nearly as bright as the sun, except silver - like her. She had named herself after her favourite heavenly body. One of her patron goddesses, Artemis, was also linked to the moon. Silver had gazed up at her in wonder so overwhelming that she'd laughed and laughed until she began to cry. She threw her arms up, as if to catch the moon itself, as it seemed to be falling upon her.

"Isis, Astarte, Diana, Hecate, Demeter, Kali, Inanna!" She sang the Goddess' many names, grateful for any of them to appear to her.

The forest had become a helter-skelter around her, shadows spinning, waltzing, owls and deer and foxes singing as her brain began to stagger with how bright and loud the world had become. Fuck, she should have brought a bottle of water!

Silver tried to search for her backpack but ended up falling to her knees, mucking her fishnets. It had been a warm night, no need for a coat, nothing more than her favourite pink and black shirt over her boob tube. But now her temperature was starting to fluctuate. Too hot, then too cold, then shivers and sweats.

This wasn't normal. It couldn't be right.

Failing to find her backpack - which she now regretting buying a navy one, perfect to camouflage at this exact moment - Silver looked to the tiny statues of her patron gods she had set up on a fallen log.

Artemis, a tiny statue she'd been lucky enough to find while on holiday in Athens, sat against a cresent mood while aiming her bow. Beside her, Pan, sat on a mound playing his pipes.

"Lord and Lady, Goddess and Horned One..." She bowed her head and clasped her hands, a bit more of a Christian-y gesture than she'd prefer, but she was desperate; "...H-help me...Show me something good! A vision or a path, something other than..."

The bloody shadows that were making her want to heave. She batted away what she was certain was the branches of trees trying to grab her arms, like wooden claws.

"Leave me alone! I'm not here for you!" She berated, mostly slapping her own elbow.

"Talking to trees? Oh been there, done that, got fur shirt." Came a gruff voice on the gentle wind; "Trees suck as friends."

Silver glanced around.

"Who's there? Who said that? Is someone watching me? You being a creeper?!" She asked, defensively, realising she was a young woman alone in a wood. Prime murder set up.

Shit.

Her hand moved to the pocket of her shirt where her phone sat. At least she had that still on her, though signal was crap here, limiting her to emergency calls only. That was fine, the police was all she'd need. Hopefully questions on why she was trespassing on private property could wait.

"Me no creeper! Me spectate, big difference. Not know lady could see me...Must have been special potion, like in old times when living speak to me." The voice explained.

"...What?" Silver blinked, her head beginning to throb; "I can hear you but...where are you? Who...?"

"Me right here. You no see?"

The voice was right in front of her. She could practically feel a warm breath waft against her face. And a strange, thick smell of must and burning and....wet dog?

And then, just to make her jump, a hand waved inches from her nose. Her eyes made out the shape of a hand before the rest of him began to materialise. Silver blinked, mesmerised as the shadows seemed to move in to form the silhouette of a being before her eyes. A man, or masculine in appearence at least.

Head like a lion, shaggy mane of wild brown hair, a heavy set brow, a mouth of jagged teeth gawping at her, blue eyes that seemed younger than the lines around them. And his body seemed to be mostly...fur?

"Pan?! Oh....Oh my god! My literal god, is it you?! Pan, my...My Lord!" She broke into hysterical laughter.

There were no horns or hooves that she could see but...surely it had to be him!

"Uhh, that like frying or Peter? Because me neither." He said, putting his palms up.

She needed a better look at him, but she was struggling to keep her eyes open. The pain in her head was becoming intense, lessened only a little by the drugs mostly distracting her. The moonlight felt as though it was burning her retinas worse than staring straight into the sun.

"Who...Which God are...?" She reached forward and her hand went through his forearm.

The man winced, one fist moving up to his mouth.

"Oof! Please no do that."

"I...I'm sorry, I...."

More pain. Louder. Angrier. Burning away inside her skull.

Had she angered this god, whoever it was? She was an idiot to think she could try to touch a divine being! She was in way over her head and now she was regretting ever getting into Wicca.

"Please...make it stop! Lord, please, I'll offer anything just....AARGH!" She collapsed onto her knees, shedding tears as the world now began to melt in her eyes.

The god knelt in front of her, concern etched into his weary face.

"Hey, hey, I no do that." He assured her, "You no look so good. More pale than Moonah. She no like that, get jealous maybe?"

That was hardly something she could help right now!

"I don't like this, I don't like this..." She began to whimper. Was the Goddess really turning against her?

"No, Moonah not hurt, not this, she good and bootiful. She no make you bleed."

Bleed? But she wasn't...

Her hand flew up to her nose, feeling what she'd thought was mucus, only to see the thick red fluid on the end of her finger.

And then came more pain. And light, blinding moonlight. So beautiful. So terrifying.

"He...He....S-stay...Sta...." She begged to the god, whoever he was, not caring if he was one of her patrons or something unknown.

She didn't want to be alone.

"Me here, Moonah girl. Me here." The voice enveloped her as everything else fell to white; "Me got you. You not die alone."

Her body was too busy convulsing in a violent seizure to respond, or dare to argue what he meant by that last point.

When the pain finally stopped, she felt a warm hand envelop her own.

And then darkness.

Sweet, silent darkness. Then, thank the gods, came sleep.

When she opened her eyes, she was still gazing up at the treetops. The moon was hanging in the same spot, still full, still gorgeous, though not quite as imposing and apocalyptic as before. Silver assumed not much time had passed since she fainted.

She raised her head, the world still a little fuzzy around her. But it was manageable, kinda like how it looked without her contacts in. Shit, she could get those in solution, they're gonna be drying out soon after that nap. Not so bad at the moment. She can't have slept long or they'd have been all squidgy between her eyelids.

"What...." It took her a moment to realise why her bearings were off. Not easy to spot at first glance, woods in England all looking mostly the same.

But she'd moved. She wasn't in the same spot as before, near the field adjacent to the mansion. She could hear the soft trickle of a running stream nearby. And she was lying on some sort of mound surrounded by blue flowers. The gap in the canope was the perfect position for the moonlight to be cast down, unobstructed.

Had she awoken in a glass coffin, she'd have fancied herself as Snow White for the new millennium. Someone had laid her there purposefully...and with care.

An outdoor bed? Or a wake?

"You no die alone." That's what the voice of the god had said.

Silver felt her own chest. No. No, she must just not be able to feel it. She checked her own pulse. Nothing.

No...She must still be off her head. She knew from dabbling with weed that come downs usually brought paranoia.

"Woah! You....you awake?"

Silver jumped off the mound at the voice and turned.

It was the furry god again. Far more solid before her now that the world had stopped spinning. In fact, he looked less...ethereal than before.

She remembered to bow her head all the same.

"Uhh, Hi. Uhm, well met?" How do you greet a god face to face? She should have studied a bit more; "Forgive me, Lord, if I messed up the ritual."

"Rich-ul? For me?" He pointed to himself and then chuckled, jaw uneven; "Haha, no one ever do rich-ul for me!"

"...Aren't you a god?"

The man shrugged; "Dunno. Pretty useless god if yes. Can't do lot except make light flicker. Who ask for that? Better gods out there, stick with Moonah, she no give a lot but good light very special."

Feeling a little deflated, Silver straightened up.

"Then what are you? Are you just some...weird guy living out in the woods?" She dropped the reverence from her voice.

He barked another laugh; "Sometime. Except me not live because, y'know, dead."

Silver blinked. There was that word again.

"...You're a ghost?"

He nodded.

"Oh, nice one! Sure, you're a ghost. Hope you don't mind if I just-"

Before the man couldn't react, she lunged and wrapped her fingers around the sleeve of grey fur over his wrist. Her hand didn't pass through like the night before. Her fingers rested in the soft fluff.

"Yeah, mate! Bit harder to fool me now I've come down. Don't feel much like a ghost now."

"No. Because ghost touch each other."

Silver let him go.

"What are you saying? I'm not a..." She patted herself down, her clothes and skin feeling just as solid as the strange man.

Then she knelt to pluck at one of the blue flowers around where she'd been laying down. Her fingers passed straight through.

"I...No, this..." She kept up the tests, waving her arm through the trees and rocks and logs.

They weren't real. Not there.

Or it was she who....

She kept looking at her hand as if it had betrayed her. She couldn't be a...She couldn't be....

"Hey. Come. Sit down or fall." The man moved over to her.

Silver flinched; "What...What are you?! What did you do to me?!"

Patting her pocket, she wished she had her athame as a weapon. But the only witchy tool she had on her body was the pentacle on her neck.

"Me no do anything. Me just ghost." The man raised his hand; "Sit and me explain. Promise."

Her heart should be pounding, knocking hard against her eardrums as it did when she was anxious, but there was only silence, despite the anxiety being at an all time high. She sat on the mound of dirt.

"It full moon. Me come out to say quick thanks to Moonah like do each month." The man explained in his broken English, "See pink hair lady set up altar and have drink. Then lady start talk to trees and spinning around like-"

He twirled, hands flapping above his head. Shit, had she looked that ridiculous?

"Lady then start laugh and cry all at once. Lady speak to me. Then lady start get sore head and nose leak blood. Then lady fall."

She touched her nostril again. No blood this time. Dry as a bone.

"Lady ask me to stay so me stay." She was surprised to hear there was more; "Me watch many die before but lady die different. She no get up and no go up to stars. Lady just sleep. Sleep and sleep and sleep. It big boring. Me thought maybe lady not really dead. But then fox come and start chew on face and lady still no wake. I pick up lady and move away, she leave body but still no wake."

Again, she hoped the man was pulling her leg. The idea of animals eating her corpse before she could be discovered disturbed her.

"It take another day till police come and find body. They set up tent and do quick search but say 'no suspicious'. Something 'bout brain bleeding. Then put body in bag and take away."

Bleed on the brain. Silver clutched at her arms.

A brain aneurism had taken her dad when she was sixteen. Both her grandparents on her mother's side suffered strokes. Her aunt had a tumour removed and barely survived. She had been well aware these things ran in her family, but they didn't tend to become a problem until they reached fifty or more. Nineteen?! How unlucky was she?

"Lady still no wake so find nice spot with pretty flowers and good view of moonah. Less likely to get walked on too. I stand guard for little longer and animals seem to know to leave you alone. Then me got big bored so went back home, but always come back to check."

"So I've just been asleep for the past...couple of days?" For all of that to have passed.

"Uhh....little bit longer."

She frowned, "How long?"

He stroked the front of his furry shift; "Long 'nough for Moonah to get fat again."

A month? She’d been asleep for a whole month?

No. Worse. She'd been DEAD for a whole month.

There was still a weight in her pocket. She pulled out her Nokia and turned on the screen. It lit up - still emergency calls only. She tried 999 all the same but had nothing in return except a single bleep. No service. It didn’t have internet access anyway like some of the newer mobiles but she doubted that would have worked either. No service at all in the afterlife...

She ran.

It had to be crazy. This is what her mum had meant when she'd warned her to be careful getting into witchcraft. It meant having bad trips and meeting crazy people who tried to sell you on lies.

Ignoring the calls of the man, she headed towards the fence she'd easily climbed over. It was in sight, she would just have to...

Blink. Silver found herself facing the man again.

She screamed. Then tried again, turning around.

Again. And again.

By her tenth attempt, she was sobbing, body wracked with distress, chest unbearably tight, a panic attack taking its hold. The man caught her that time, strong hands on her forearms.

"Hey, hey, shh. It okay. Maybe stop now."

"It not okay, I'm fucking dead!" She yelled, eyes red with tears.

"Yeah, true, that suck. But not do you good running round like no headed chicken. Come. Sit."

No bother in finding a chair. The man took her hands and brought her to the floor. Looking down, she saw the dirt didn't mar her outfit anymore.

One of his hands continued to squeeze hers, while another reached to rub her back.

That helped. It was a bit like...

She sniffed; "I wanna go home. I want my mum." For as much as they clashed about everything, she hated the thought of the police knocking on her door to tell her mum they'd found her daughter dead in the woods; "I want...I want my dog."

Brothers and sisters, she wasn't too close to. But her black lab, Jess, had been her best friend, the only one who could truly comfort her when the anxiety flared. Would Jess be lying on her bed, not understanding why she wasn't coming back?

The man at her side gave a curious hum as he continued massaging her between her shoulder blades.

"How 'bout this?"

Silver sniffed, raising her head up to see the man retrieve something small and fuzzy, the same colour as his sleeve, from inside his shift. She stared, tears stilling.

"Is that....?" A puppy? A newborn puppy?

"This Kya. She my cub. Dead like us so never grow up." He cradled the pup like precious china in his hands; "She sleepy girl, like you. Here. Stroke head, it help?"

The little cub stirred only slightly on the man's palms. She was so cute, so tiny, it was difficult for Silver to wallow in grief and loss with this little marvel before her. She delicately ran her fingertip over the pup's head, eliciting the tiniest coo of approval, little tongue poking out.

Silver laughed, the last of her tears spilling. Dogs always did fix everything. She'd joked that Jess was her untrained therapy pet.

"You hold if very careful. Not too tight." He offered to her, his tone turning serious.

She nodded, gingerly taking the cub and bringing it to her chest. Suddenly, she was also reminded of her niece and the first time she'd held her as a baby. Fuck. Fuck, she'd never get to see her grow up.

The tears began again as she let the cub rest against her calvicle, rocking as much for herself as for the baby.

The man was still rubbing her arm.

"Me know it big shock. But lady not alone. Lot of ghosts in big house. I tell them there dead lady in wood but they no believe me. We show them now....when you ready. You like them...some of them....Two, maybe."

Silver rubbed her face; "And...you're not a god? You're just a....man?"

"Sorry 'bout that."

She laughed, as did he.

"Nobody's perfect." She smiled, rubbing little Kya's back and feeling her tiny tail flap against her skin; "Do you have a name then?"

"Many. Friends call me Robin."

"S'pretty." She said, watching a blush appear beneath that brown mane; "I'm Lou-."

Closing her mouth, she nearly let slip the name she'd cast off. The name of the dead girl.

"Silver."

"Like Moonah light? Very nice. Me knew you love her too, is why I lay you to sleep where you always see her. It how my tribe would lay our dead before burning. How I lay my mum..." He began to trail off and Silver saw a flicker of pain on that otherwise jovial face.

Tribe? Damn, how old was he?

"Thanks. It was lovely." It was probably a more thoughtful resting place than the tacky vase her mum was probably keeping her ashes in.

She slowly got to her feet, holding Kya securely, the little wolf melting her heart as she whined and nuzzled her skin.

"These other ghosts...Are they cool with witches and pagans?"

"Hehehe. Fanny gonna love meeting you."

She wasn't certain, but she had a strong suspicion that was sarcasm.