Citation: Squidfaggot. "Surviving Certain Death: An Experience with DOB (exp77392)". Erowid.org. Jun 5, 2009. erowid.org/exp/77392
||(blotter / tab)
So some overdeveloped 14-year-old geek kid is trying to sell me acid while I'm trying to go see my favorite local skapunk band. It dosn't look like acid (kinda yellowish-clear) and I highly doubt that this guy would actually have access to hallucinogenic drugs, but I havn't tripped in a while and that little trip-demon in my guts that wants to believe him cuts him a deal. I pay him ten for two hits- half what he was asking- and promise that if and when I start to feel it I'll pay him the other ten.
I stick em under my tounge and proceed to the show to beat people up for the next two hours. I lost track of the little yellow thingies- I guess they dissolved. The only other related event in this time period was when some bald guy who had so many rings in his nose that it was, like, wieghed down, asked me if I bought anything from the aforementioned kid. Sketched out that he might work there and kick me out if I respond in the afirmative, my tounge gets fuzzy and I stare at him stupidly. He repeats the question with frustration: 'DID YOU BUY HALLUCINOGENIC DRUGS?' I respond honestly: 'I don't know.' He kind of chuckles, and goes 'Wasn't acid. Was DOB.' 'Date of birth what?' By this time he had walked away. Regardless of it's name, I had taken it two hours ago and still felt nothing. I considered it another dud and forgot about it's existence for a little while.
It was at this particular event that I met some very bouncy, amusing brother-and-sister speedfreak-like kids who would later play a huge role in my life that I will not detail because it is insignifigant to this report. Anyway, I found myself without a place to go after the show, so I asked if I could crash at their house. They excitedly agreed and so we embarked on our journey walking from uptown New Orleans, through the central business district, through the French Quarter, through the Bywater, to their house in the Lower 9th ward- a distance of maybe 3 or 4 miles.
It was about 40 minutes into this walk that I started thinking I was crazy. I did not tell my new friends this- I didn't know how to express it. I did not at the time associate this insanity with the drugs I had taken about three hours earlier,so it was rather unerving. I stopped talking and just listened to them talk- which they fortunatly did a lot of. I found myself being very empathetic, feeling that through their stories of random instances in their lives I could very well understand these people I had just met. They frightened tourists and introduced me to gutterpunks and led me through areas I was at the time quite unfamiliar with. We stopped sometimes to rest and pee on sidewalks. I jumped at shadows and was very, very nervous. Too-dimentional tags of cats and robots popped off walls and looked at me. Still didn't remember about the DOB.
Around that quiet time of night right after night had uncerimoniously changed into morning, we entered the Bywater. There were no cars in the street at all, so we sprawled under a streetlamp in front of a warehouse. I was just thinking how pretty the bright orange light was against the inky black sky when the streetlight started to bleed. Yup. It was fucking bleeding on me, big huge drops of beautiful golden light-blood that pooled in the street around it. I realised that that was where all light comes from, the blood of lightbulbs. I related this to my companions, who looked at me strangely and told me that the lamp appeared unharmed. It finally occured to me that this was illogical, and THEN I remembered about the DOB. I related this to them too, and they giggled and led me the rest of the way to their house.
I breathed a little sigh of relief, chalking it up to the drugs, but I was still quite uneasy. The bridge across the industrial canal into the lower 9th is raised up vertically so ships can pass, and then lowered again for automotive and pedestrian acess. It was up when we got there, and I watched the pretty boats go by on the pretty water in a daze. Then the bridge started to fall on me, or so it seemed, as my depth perception was shot to hell. I ran quite a ways away before my companions could coax me back and show me that the bridge came down perfectly at my feet. I was frightened and amazed.
Upon getting to the house, they busted out comic books and pictorial memoirs of the vietnam war. There were pictues of rotting corpses and screaming vietnamese people running down dirt roads covered in flaming napalm. I was horrified. I looked instead at the violent comic books, of the Johnny the Homicidal Manic variety, and though they depicted even more violent and atrocious things, I fully understood that they were cartoons, and that made them toloerable and even cute.
Upon trying to go to bed, I found that the dead vietnamese people were watching me. They were sitting in every corner of the dark room, beckoning me into the void. Really. They were long and blue and bubbly and had huge gaping mouths and were half-formed out of shadows. I was unable to scream or talk or even move. I just sat there, blanket pulled up to my eyes, shivering violently from the incredable cold they generated.
I knew I was going to die that night. It was one of the saddest things I've ever experienced. I knew the DOB was poisonous, or these Vietnamese people would do me in somehow, didn't matter, somehow I was going to die. I was so tired, so so tired, and I just wanted to go to sleep, to die in peace, but my brain wouldn't let me. It kept me awake with evil, unholy thoughts, like spiney tentacles wrapping around my brain and tightening every time I tried to break free. I don't know when I stopped crying and convulsing, but somehow I did, in fact, fall asleep. I woke up mid morning the next day, saw the sun coming through the window, and realised I was alive and fine and sober. I ate an entire loaf of bread and it was the most beautiful day of my life.
COPYRIGHTS: All reports are copyright Erowid and you agree not to download or analyze the report data without contacting Erowid Center and receiving permission first.
Experience Reports are the writings and opinions of the individual authors who submit them.
Some of the activities described are dangerous and/or illegal and none are recommended by Erowid Center.