Posts Tagged ‘party girl dayz’
Every Friday, I post an oldie but a goodie blog for your enjoyment. To those of you who just started reading The Grownup Girl recently, enjoy the “new” blog! To those of you who have been with me from the start, but have memories like mine, enjoy the “new” blog!
And to those who were with me from the start and who already read this blog and burned it into your memory, word for word, photogenically, I say:
What are you doing wasting your time dilly-dallying on my website? Get out there and find me a book deal!
If you hate to read, just click on the audio link, below.
Staring at the title of my last blog, I realized there is ANOTHER story that same title reminds me of, that perhaps bears telling… The story of the last time I ate at a restaurant of that very name – Food For Thought – in Washington, DC, when I was seventeen years old.
The story of the one and only time I ever tripped on acid.
KIDS? If you are reading this, Mommy means “fell down when I tripped over some dangerous spilt liquid. Now, TURN OFF THE COMPUTER AND GO DO YOUR HOMEWORK!
Have they gone? Great. Here’s the story:
Back when I was seventeen, for some idiotic reason, I got it in my head that it would be a brilliant idea for me to try acid. Then, for an even greater idiotic reason, I decided not to do it in a safe environment with a group of close and trusted friends like I learned later it’s best to do, but instead, just to take a couple tabs while hanging with my best friend Ingrid.
SIDE NOTE: Mucho props to Ingie for navigating me through that entire night. Girlfriend, you were a trooper!
I can’t remember exactly when I took the acid – whether it was in my car or at the restaurant. I do remember that the first thing that seemed strange was my hands – they looked like they were digital, like they belonged to a computer program.
I went to the bathroom, and on my way back to my table, a guy came up to me. Blocking my path to my table, he proceeded to talk my ear off about my friend Ingrid – how he wants me to introduce him, he has a crush on her, can he sit with us, etc., etc.
Listening to this barrage of crush-talk through my acid-soaked ears, he struck me as supremely hilarious. So, naturally, I started to laugh. And laugh. And LAUGH. I laughed so hard that tears began streaming down my face. And then – the tears streaming down my face must have confused my acid-saturated brain, tricking it into thinking I must be crying, because the next thing I knew? I was sobbing.
Thus began my whacked-out acid trip ride. Ingrid helped me, got me out of Food For Thought, and got me laughing again. She took me downtown to the Vault and the Fifth Column – nightclubs which – as anyone who remembers those places will know – one should NEVER go when tripping. Full of fake, crazy people, too much music and stimulation, lights, people, movement, sound…
After that, Ingrid got me out of the club kid scene and over to her boyfriend’s apartment or his friend’s apartment, I can’t remember which. All I remember is a bunch of high school boys I didn’t know very well, kind of sweet, geeky boys, hanging out, doing nothing much. Maybe getting stoned. Waaaay too mellow for my crazy acid self.
So she got me out of there too, and brought me finally to the most Twilight Zone place in the metro Washington, DC area: Tastee Diner. (Did they name it that, knowing that stoned & tripping kids would endlessly freak out about the spelling of “Tastee”?) This would be the place you could take a SOBER kid and make her think she’s going insane… so tripping, I kind of felt at home.
The old waitress with the caked on makeup looked like she was wearing a mask that was partially flaking off. The salt and pepper shakers entertained me endlessly. People walking by were in my video game, blipping and bleeping as they walked past and sat down or paid their bills. I don’t think I was actually able to eat the food.
I do remember wishing that I could just stop tripping already, and when I DID finally stop tripping (the next morning, after sleeping it off), it was an easy vow to make, to never touch the stuff again.
Hey – thanks, Earlier Blog, for the memories!
Sheva (BatSheva Vaknin)