my attempt at putting a bad trip into words

1:30 am finds me in a dormitory bathroom, hanging over a dirty toilet bowl of the men’s room. The fact that the toilet does not appear to have been flushed in quite some time is strangely acceptable. In fact, the color is rather fascinating. I feel my mouth stretching open. Is this a cough? A yawn? Or will I finally just get the vomiting over with and start having a good time? What floor am I on? Floor? Are my feet on the floor? It sure as hell doesn’t feel like it. I look down, but the bottom half of my face begins to melt as I bend. Dear god, what will people think? I can’t leave this stall with my face melting. In the stall next to me I can see my friend’s clenched fists, knuckles white against the tiled floor, on either side of the toilet. I realize that he has been puking for quite a while now. Is that normal? Just the body-mind thing, he told me. “Don’t think about it,” I say. Thank god, I can talk. Maybe my face isn’t really melting. “Hello?” No response, but he’s stopped gagging. I lean against the wall and feel myself slowly turn its sickly shade of yellow. At least, I think, my face won’t be so noticeable. Oh shit, my friend. Has the wall gotten him too? Is he even still in the bathroom with me? I peer under the divider across from my own, which by this point I am truly a part of. His fists are still there, but they’re tiled blue like the stone floor. Like the legend of Medusa, I think, and congratulate myself on still remembering mythology in this kind of mental state. I begin to panic. Dear god, I can’t disappear into a wall! What would my parents think? But at the same time, I can’t leave this stall with my face dripping. I sink farther down to the floor. My insides are ripping themselves apart. I remember the scene in The Matrix, when a metal worm disappears into Neo through his belly button. I need a fucking cigarette. Besides, if there is a metal worm in my stomach, it would smoke him out. Right? Impossible to walk in this muck

God this place smells. I look back at the toilet, remember why, and throw open the lock in a panic. I need to wash my hands. I stumble over to the far wall, but never get to turning on the faucet. Above the sink I see my face. And, yes, it really is melting. Any hope that this was all a horrible hallucination has completely vanished. I stare in horror as my forehead slowly pixelizes, smiles, and oozes down like a teardrop next to my nose. My pupils must be huge. Behind me, I see another stall door swing open. Hallelujah, he’s alive! “Don’t look in the mirror,” he tells me. I shield my eyes with my hand because I can’t look away. Fuck, that was a bad idea. My hand touched my forehead, and now it’s melting too. I need a cigarette more than anything, but my right hand is stuck to my face. Have they grown together? A skin that drips down off the trees.

my attempt at putting a bad trip into words


Joined February 2008

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  • Artwork Comments 2

Artist's Description

What a bad idea. I think we’ll stick to daytime from now on.


drugs lsd trip

Artwork Comments

  • clone42
  • Ciaran O'Hagan
desktop tablet-landscape content-width tablet-portrait workstream-4-across phone-landscape phone-portrait
desktop tablet-landscape content-width tablet-portrait workstream-4-across phone-landscape phone-portrait

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