Winter 1992 (In Search of Lost Time)

    I'm 20 years old. It's a bastard cold Friday night in late March and I'm sitting on W's least questionable sofa waiting for something to happen. Half an hour ago, K, a mutual friend, had given me a tiny square of paper and told me to put it under my tongue. Fifteen minutes ago, he had stuck a tape into W's stereo and turned it on.  Five seconds after that, I had nearly jumped out of my skin when the speakers let out a frankly horrific noise.

    W. glared at him.

    "You know, 'Last Rights' is not what most people would pick as a soundtrack for someone's first fucking acid trip. What the hell is wrong with you?"

    "Yeah, but I just got it, and I really wanted to listen to it tonight..."

    "Is it supposed to sound like that?"

    "Okay, fine, I can turn it off, what do you want to listen to instead?"

    "W, I think something's wrong with your tape deck. Or me."

    "No, you're fine. Fuck, put on Sisters or something, Jesus. You goddamn lunatic."

    Another fifteen minutes in and I start finding the whole situation hilarious.

    "Yeah, there you go. Hey, you want to see something cool?"

    He turns off all the lights in the room and closes the drapes. The stereo's digital display wobbles slightly. K lights a cigarette and starts waving it around, and the ember leaves behind a jittering curve of fading red.

    "Ooooooh. Hey, where's the flashlight? I want to try."

    [Later]

   We order a pizza. I carefully put the correct amount of money, plus a generous tip, right next to the door  in order to avoid having to talk any more than absolutely necessary. W assures me that the delivery guy has probably dealt with people in much worse states. I learn firsthand about temporal relativity when the clock stays stuck at 11:15 for the next several hours.

    [Much Later]

    We go outside. It's snowing and I'm staring dumbstruck at the sky watching the snowflakes streak downward like the slowest, tiniest shooting stars ever. I start talking a load of pretentious shit about the molecular structure of ice crystals and fractals and walk face-first into a lamppost.

    [Very Early]

    Saturday morning cartoons, I am convinced, are created primarily for people coming down and only incidentally for children.