And then Thomas Jefferson woke up from his daymare baseball hallucination and realized he slayed all the Founding Fathers in a delirious sports fervor at one of their clandestine illuminati meetings. He was caught red handed, faced, and booted and was promptly offered the presidency of the United States. He died an indebted pauper which is the most American thing he could have done besides make a hit musical about his historic life with tickets that cost a midwest rent in a city with rampant apartment vacancies and hideous wealth. Here’s the thing, little Jeffersons, before you find yourself acting a late-stage syphilitic fool, you are going to need that constant that we’ve talked about. This reversal (don’t trust the photo) has you feeling mentally topsy turvy and at least a little like a cornered street dog ready to snap the protrusions off anything in your way. You basically got a hot dose of space brain and now you have to hold onto the floor and stop thinking you have to find your way back to the ceiling. Ground yourself. Lay down, even. Talk yourself through the panic. I’m not really good at psychedelics so the idea of being trapped inside my own brain gives me a brand of anxiety I can’t even think about without getting twitchy. So then I do the wrong thing and resist the flow and try to focus on the fact that if, for some lucky reason, the drugs do their job and eventually wear off, I’ll be back to normal in like four hours. And that’s why I would rather spend my life crafting a vehicle to rewind time a century or so and fly to Asia to curl up in an opium den than have a full dose of psilocybin foot-stomping my mind grapes. Though I’m sure my brain wine would make a staggering elixir. Tell me what notes your brain vintage contains in the comments.
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