There was a wild afternoon from my early to mid teens, which I remember oddly and somewhat funny of course, and yet I cannot say that I remember much of what happened at all.
No, this was one of those wild afternoons that I took a few extra steps to secure with a n 8-hour trip on a substance known as Lysergic Acid Diethylamide.
Yes. This was ‘the girl,” or also known as “lucy in the skies with diamonds.”
But what the hell, right?
I was young and crazy and longhaired and fit to be tied.
Nothing about this day was my idea. I was a wingman or a distraction for a friend who assigned me a date with a girl whom I can hardly remember.
I cannot recall if she was pretty or not. I am not too sure that she saw me as appealing either and certainly not after the LSD took hold. No way.
I was running around, acting like a maniac and carrying on as if I were in need of a sedative and perhaps a straight jacket to keep me from climbing the walls.
I cannot say I remember much about the date at all, except for the fact that we were at a small and local theme park, complete with rides, haunted houses, games like the ones at carnivals and you toss darts at balloons to win a little prize.
If anything, I could say this place was perfect for dates and young romance. However, I was young for sure. But I was far from romantic and far from someone who was able to enjoy a cute moment with a girl and win her prizes at an amusement park.
I remember the earlier part of the date which is about all I can remember clearly. I remember when my trip started to take hold and more, I remember going on a ride known as The Gravi-tron, which was a ride that spun around and caused a g-force that sticks your body to the wall.
This is when the acid began its effects and worse, I took too many doses and so, the mild to wild bouts with my self-induced schizophrenia was overwhelming to say the least.
All I can say is . . .
That poor, poor, teenage girl ran after me and chased me around the theme park like an angry babysitter. She found herself apologizing for me to other people and advising that there was something medically wrong with me, which was fine . . .
I get that
Of course, it was fine. What choice did she have?
And I assumed that there might have been some kind of spark or fireworks in the air, which is why I mauled her somewhat playfully (or so I thought) in the moving car that took us through the haunted house.
I know we kissed. I know she let m do it . . .
I think I might have run my hand up her shirt, just to say it happened or just to say that we did it.
And again, she did not stop me to the best of my understanding. and for some reason, I swore she was laughing and having at least some kind of fun.
But maybe the fun got old too quickly.
I know that the fireworks I saw were more psychedelic than say the feelings she might have had at the time.
And then there was the food . . .
And then there was a run-in with security.
Then there was a walk-through at the house of mirrors or the maze which was a mistake for me to try. We shouldn’t have gone this way. It was too bizarre for me and perhaps too dangerous because I kept walking into glass.
I did!
I walked into the glassy mirrors face-first and hard too.
By the way –
I never liked mirrors. Not when I was high on LSD. And I certainly did not like the funhouse mirrors that mutated and deranged my reflection to be more of a bizarre sight.
As it was, I never liked the reflection I saw in the mirror. I used to avoid looking at the mirror on the wall in my bedroom or bathroom.
All I saw were flaws.
I never liked my reflection, let alone seeing my reflection become distorted and mutated in a house of mirrors.
God, no.
That was to trippy
I cannot say that I know the exact arrangement of the day or how things worked out and nor can I report an accurate account of how long we were at the theme park. I seldom went here however, the place was known as Adventure Land and there were some equally good times here as well.
However, I do recall when my so-called friend and the girl he wanted to impress reconnected with me and my so-called date.
I was really high
My girl was really angry!
“We need to talk. RIGHT NOW!” said my girl as she grabbed her friend and walked away.
Then she complained about me at a loud enough volume that it was obvious she was angry at me.
She was angry when I went on the kid’s ferris wheel and screamed from the window that I was flying.
I tried smoking more weed with the idea that perhaps this might alter my perception or mellow my state. But the trip was in full swing and the psychedelics were enough to blur the lines between me, reality, boundaries and the awareness to respect the kind and fare-paying families who decided to come to Adventure Land on that day.
I know my date was yelling at her friend about me.
I know she said the date was worse than babysitting her little brother who lived on a drug known as Ritalin, which is a wild and awful form of ADHD medicine.
I know about Ritalin because I used to steal some of it on occasion from a buddy of mine.
His kid brother was on it too.
I used Ritalin because the drug acted like a cheap form of speed, but coupled with alcohol and the ride was more enjoyable that way. And embarrassingly enough and shamefully; I admit to enjoying this and Ritalin’s contribution to my masturbation’s marathons, all night long.
I mean, hey . . .
what else can a “no pussy-getting” teenage kid do besides amuse himself anyways?
My friend knew I was in bad shape.
He laughed
He asked what happened. . .
But I was too far gone to answer with a communicative or understandable way.
“What did you do,” he asked.
“I don’t know,” I answered.
I laughed somewhat hysterically and perhaps loud enough and mad too, like a man fit for the rubber-room walls in an mental health institution.
“I don’t know what happened,” I laughed.
And then I jeered . . .
“But I guess a blowjob is out of the question!”
I laughed more and yes, a blowjob, a handjob, a kiss on the cheek or a touch in any direction was definitely out of the question. . .
Supposedly, my friend “made out” okay.
At lest he had fun.
I do not think I ever acted as a wingman for him again. At least, not after this time.
Or perhaps I am mistaken because I do have a slightly distorted memory of being in a girl’s house with him after this occasion.
I remember there was a girl with hairy arms and one boob was disproportionately sized and severely different from the other.
I am sure I was far from sensative about this and perhaps I might have asked why her tits looked like they did.
But hey, I was high.
I was a stupid kid and perhaps I remember this more than the girl with uneven tits.
But who knows?
I know the girl never had much experience with other boys. I’m not too sure how well I did that day either. I sincerely doubt that I was tfit on the list as one of her best times.
But again, I think I was there to create a diversion and distract a friend while one of my friends “made out.”
I never dated well.
I was never comfortable on dates. I never knew what to say and I defintely never said ‘the right thing.”
I was grateful when age stepped in and maturity found me (at least, slightly) because my looks improved and so did I. at least, a little bit
I made a commitment to myself to never go on blind dates or be anyone’s wingman.
I suppose I assumed life would change as I grew older. And it has. However, no matter how I age or improve or how my body has changed over the years; I have never felt comfortable with myself or my reflection in the mirror.
Dating in my 50’s was NOT a good or fun experience.
Insecurity . . .
I suppose it is a far more common thing than I assume.
I often see people when I am at the gym and I watch them pose and flex after working their muscles.
I do not like to do this.
I do not like losing myself in comparison to other people.
I do not like the way I look or the way my body appears.
I admit this is due to old narratives and old traumas and past lives that cannot and will not ever be lived or happen again.
I have to say this –
Igo back to my first literary hero, Robert Fulghum.
I have to go back to his entry which said, “Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words can break my heart.”
I know what this means . . .
There is no word in my language that is worse or uglier than the word “ugly,” and there is nothing meaner than calling someone ugly.
I have been called ugly before.
I’ve heard this from strangers too.
I’ve always tried to act like I don’t care
but I do
So, I know this hurts
But nothing hurts worse than an ugly insult from someone who was otherwise the most beautiful person in the world to you; until their lies appeared, and made them uglier than their truth
Today is a new day
Tomorrow might not be another chance to say this
So, let me say this now
I want to be bettet
I want to be good
But more
I want to be beautiful
I suppose first,
I need to understand what this means
(to be beautiful, that is)
