Robotussling

Ryan texted me that he had a good idea.
I asked what. He replied: "ROBO"
Now, I had never taken the stuff. He had countless times.
So, around 10 I snuck out and began stalking the neighborhood.
Getting strange looks. Especially from the neighborhood lesbians and their hideous dogs. Ryan showed up forty five minutes later. We sojourned to Wal-Mart. Quickly and painlessly stole two bottles. In his room, I quickly downed the cherry and menthol syrup. Ryan struggled, with his reptilian throat muscles. It took him twenty minutes to eradicate his bottle. Paris Hilton's New BFF show was on meanwhile. I remember feeling the effects around 12:15am. It remember feeling kind of tired, laying in bed with Ryan listening to Quasimoto on my mp3 player Then I turned it to some Manson. By then the drugs had definitely taken hold. Ryan started contorting in strange positions, semi-narrating his own movements. "Oh my God, I'm a ball." We started singing The Dope Show, slowly and fluidly writhing in the highness that was possessing us. Now, I can't relate a play-by-play account. Because I don't remember it that way. Just bits and pieces, the things I relate could've been in any order.

I do recall time was different in the way it moved. I remember trying to walk (difficult) to turn off the tv because it was bothering Ryan, but I don't know when in the night that was. Just that Non Je Ne Regrette Rien by Edith Piaf was on my mp3 player, and at some point we had a channel devoted entirely to art on for seemingly hours. Ryan initiated a game he called "Washing Machine." Typically it would be homoerotic rolling and wrestling and rocking among his friends. We swung back and forth, hugging each other and swaying our backs to the left and right. It feels like you're falling forever, and it wasn't scary at all. Just euphoria.

At one point, we glanced at the clock: 1:23am. We interpreted it as a symbol. It felt like communication from another dimension, ha. I repated numbers often. "123123123123," in fact, I know I talked a lot, in a multitude of different voices. Sung a lot. We must've been melodic, because I remember Ryan saying "We just made music and it was pretty awesome."After a while he finally had to throw up, announcing first he was "journeying to the floor." He vomited like one possessed. Heaved out a mass of pink sludge in a plastic bag, which I observed as "happy-looking." Meanwhile I was sitting paralyzed on the bed for what seemed like forever, watching him puke and feeling my entire body vibrate.
I think he got naked after that.

Eventually we had to use the restroom. He got up first. "My legs are LEGO bricks," he said. He turned on the light to put on clothes. He had three eyes, then four. Apparently so did I. We just stared at each other for a good minute. The tv must've been on, or we never turned it off. I don't remember. He commented on how there was two of the woman on tv. I thought there was two of everything. Nothing I looked at held still. I tried walking, and was in no condition to go upstairs. So he went up, obviously having difficulty. Turned out the light for me. I layed in bed, in the same position, while he was gone. Stared at the wall and felt weird things happening to my legs. First it seemed as if they were immersed in a bean bag type of material, with the filling pressing on my skin in a pleasant manner. And then I was utterly convinced I had a mermaid tail. I don't know how long he was gone. He said later he might've gotten stuck in the bathroom.

He insisted when he got back that I go urinate as well. We went up together, and as soon as I stepped out of his room and to the stairs, it seemed like I stepped into a vacuum, and that everything was silent. Was especially odd, because those stairs are loud as fuck. Made it to the bathroom. Was difficult, because nothing was holding still. I don't remember going back down to his room at all, but we must have. I finally threw up a little. We disrobed because we got hot. He said something about the pleasures of being naked. I remember asking if we had sex. He said "Yeah, but nobody finished." His skin was an inferno, and I remember saying so. He claimed mine was also.

I remember protesting that his miniscule chin stubble was stabbing my face, entering my pores.
His chin fit perfectly in the groove between my eyes, where my nose starts, and his breath felt like the rain forest on my forehead. Sometime the television talked about Andy Warhol's Factory and Jeff Koons. And they kept interviewing a black man with a jungle backdrop behind him that Ryan claimed had no nose.
Everything else is a blur.
And this shit is legal.