Addy-ios

Technically, this fall semester of college is my fourth year, unless of course I take into account that I haphazardly took a yearlong hiatus. In those 4 years it’s obvious that experimentation would be an everyday occurrence, but unlike most of my collegiate peers, I had yet to experience the pleasure of pulling an “all-nighter” thanks to the wonder pill commonly referred to “addy” by the cool kids.

I never felt the need to study all night or type two five-page papers in one evening on two entirely different topics, but when I realized that the fall semester is coming to an end, and that it is my first year back doing the whole school thing, and I had yet to write my midterm papers discussing the rhetorical choices Larry Levis uses in his poem, My Story in a Late Style of Fire, for my poetic technique class. And that I had yet to write my midterm paper on the themes of naïveté, innocence, gender subjugation and individual agency found in Kate Chopin’s "Desiree’s Baby" and Charlotte Perkins Gilman’s "The Yellow Wall-paper," I figured it was time for me to test adderall out for the first time.

Prior swallowing one of two 20-miligram pills, I had only heard from friends how remarkable this works.

“Time is just efficient”
“Dude, it’s pretty great”
“I was all addy’d out last night—turned into a Halo-fest”

But I was skeptical, and ignorantly associated adderall with Jesse Spano’s ‘pep-pills’—the ones that Zach Morris so caringly disposed of in an early episode of "Saved by the Bell." I think Jesse nearly overdosed studying for Mr. Tuttle’s exam.

It’s 6:55 in the morning, the sun hasn’t come out yet, but it’s approaching. I haven’t danced, cried or had random high school buddies climb through my bedroom window like Jesse had, but I did, however, just complete two of my best essays.

I took a long nap today, woke up feeling groggy and had ‘afternoon-nap-breath.’ It’s a lot like morning breath, just a few hours overdue. The lights were off in the house; my people were watching "Monday Night Football" across town, drinking beers and celebrating the start of the week, ironically. I made the conscious decision to join this group, have a couple of beers, watch the first half of the Colts/Jags blowout, and purchase two tiny pink pills from an inconspicuous collegiate drug dealer.

These 18-20 year old college drug dealers share little similarities with real drug dealers: (a) they’re 'college' drug dealers. Selling a couple of prescription pills and 1/8 oz of green to a tight circle of acquaintances is barely a crime—slap on the wrist at most. It's not a career move. And (b), it’s a hell of a lot safer than scoring some crack on the street. I don’t do crack.

When I got back home, roughly 10:45-ish, my roommate and I sat on the couch, ate some dinner and watched the rest of the game. At 11:30-ish, feeling tired and contemplating if I’d even do the assignments today since they are not due until Wednesday, I made my way towards “The Factory.” A new name I gave my room because of the massive amounts of incredible work that is produced at a small, black desk that stores the soundtrack of my life. And it’s an undersized homage to legendary artist Andy Warhol.

I started reading over my instructions, popped a pill and opened a blank document on Microsoft Word for Mac. Three hours later, a brilliantly crafted essay. It was time for a short break.

15-minutes went by, and I was back at my desk, joined by Mozart and Beethoven, Chopin and Bach. Three hours later…BOOM!...another brilliant essay—time for bed.

Actually, no—I’m 40-miligrams deep, and there is no sign of this wearing off before morning. I’m left with no choice besides updating my growing blog and roaming the streets of the information super highway—Internet, you know. Why else would I be awake at 7:19 in the morning on a day I don’t have class till 11?

Cheers,
Victor

Gonzo Gainesville

It was some time in the early evening when the Pillsbury Doughboy fed the five of us magic mushrooms. He sprinkled edible confetti in his creamy chocolate frosting, and made the fungi taste somewhat delightful. After a cloudy 20-minutes and four glasses of purified water they asked us to join them—John, Paul, George and Ringo—in the patio and hop aboard the yellow submarine.

“Those Brits put on one hell of light show and really get deep into your mind, right?”
“Yea, man. San Francisco is really cool.”
“What?”
“I understand totally. But why?”
“Seriously.”
“I’m lost.”
“Me too!”

When Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Heart Club Band wrapped their set, we drifted towards the soundstage. The forest scene was dimly lit and three of the five actors smoked cigarettes and chatted near the coffee maker. I saw myself as one of these actors and captured the entire conversation with a mental movie camera.

“This role is boring. I want to play a professor.”
“How come?”
“Yea”
“Yea what?
“You puked?”
“Yea, man.”
“We’re saying ‘yea’ a lot.”
“Me too!”
“I know.”

The documentary was long and only made sense in the moment. Other actors would walk in and out of the conversation and look confused—they giggled for hours, especially the girls.

“I can’t stop laughing.”
“Me too!”
“Like, seriously, if I start talking now, I’ll talk forever.”
“Me too!”

I must say that the forest set was quite remarkable. Luckily for us, the main tree caressed our patio in its furry arms. He swayed us back and forth and gave us a guided tour of the lot. At any moment, the ride could have collapsed, killing us instantly upon impact with the bottom of the pre-historic volcanic island. Dinosaurs, evil squirrels and even bats would have feasted on our decomposing corpses and only sobriety could save us. We must go inside—much safer with animation.

“Let’s see what’s going on inside.”
“Yea, I think I want to go inside for a while.”
“Me too!”

I remember the Rugrat’s house being much less colorful. Maybe Top Gun’s Aviators will balance the color. Yes, much better. The green becomes muted and the purple looks red.

“This is insane. When did we get into the cartoon?”
“I know what you mean.”
“Me too!”
“You haven’t stopped saying ‘me too’ since we ate the mushrooms.”
“Guys, I’m sorry if I’m being bossy.”

A football team from the Midwest kicked a field goal directly through our big screen. It won the game for them, but apparently the faces behind the curtains were rooting for the other team. They looked upset.

“Those faces, over there…it might be Julius Caser, but I don’t know.”
“They look pissed.”
“Maybe we should see what’s going on outside.”
“I can’t move right now.”
“Me too!”
“I’m going alone.”

A broom sat in the corner of the operating room and was the only weapon I could find. The front door was miles away from the O.R. but we managed to come off our cloud-like sofa bed.

“I thought you guys were staying”
“Me too!”
“Why are you holding a broom?”
“Because we need it.”
“Look, over there, go there.”
“This is what we’re supposed to be doing.”

We beat the wild boar with the broom-sword and were back in time for the Blind Melon concert. Beethoven opened for them. That was a tough act to follow.

“This song is fun.”
“Yea, three is the magic number.”
“No Rain? That’s not what it said in the paper.”
“I wouldn’t care if it rains.”
“Me too!”

The blood is rushing to my brain as I walk on the roof. The Vietnamese Airplane’s propeller almost cut my bare foot. That damn Charlie is always sneaking around our house.

“Did you see that? Hello? Is anyone there? Holy shit.”

I escaped the prison camp, but barely. Luckily, Jared Roth was there with his guitar. The strings looked odd, and his fingers were bleeding, but it sounded great.

“Seriously, you’re killing me over there.”
“Sorry, it just sounds so great.”
“I thought it sounded cool.”
“Me too!”

None of it made sense and everyone was in a daze. Some vomited and others slept. I did the latter—slept right through the slumber party. When I awoke, early the next morning, the submarine was gone, the boar was dead and the movie set no longer sat behind the house. Reality sucks.

Cheers,
Victor