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Tag: Drug Chronicles
Mrs. O’Connor liked Burger King because it was cheap. When I arrived the next day, she was putting on makeup and drinking Coca-Cola from a large glass. “I’m almost ready,” she said. “That’s good,” I answered, “because I hate going into Mass late.” “I always love to go places late,” she said. “I hate to be on time . . .”
My friend, if I don’t put up things for you to “like” it’s not because I don’t love you, but because I remember what you and I used to be . . .
It was one of those days when the snow started and wouldn’t quit, so we bought beers and drank them and didn’t stop until long after dark and anyway, we were out. The apartment seemed all stained and yellow and stank of rancid burger grease. The snow just kept coming. We needed escape . . .
You snorted a rail so long I thought for sure it would knock you over, but you just threw your head back and asked me where I kept my champagne. With your pupils dilated, your jaw set hard, you strode across my apartment in your ridiculous red high heels and poured yourself a glass, bending down to lick up the overflowing liquid. You were still fun then, on day one. They all are . . .
Which reminds you of the first time you ever dropped acid.
Hardly anyone then had ever heard of LSD. But rumors dawned of a great new drug which let you see God, or someone similar. Apocryphal stories drifted like alien blimps through misty skies. How LSD had been discovered by an atheist Swiss chemist who got some on his hands and became a holy man. How Aldous Huxley had taken tons of it and left his dying body behind, rising like a comet into heaven . . .
Author and artist Jonathan Santlofer, who edited and illustrated The Marijuana Chronicles, is giving away an original oil painting (pictured here) created for the anthology—see guidelines below or visit his website to see how you can win!
Never answer the door at five forty-five a.m. on a Sunday morning. Either somebody’s too high, somebody has just died, or somebody has just arrived who wants to kill you . . .