I would only take one tab. Sang had more experience. He took three. We sat on his couch, the air conditioner on high, slowly sipping orange juice—to push the acid into our blood faster. This was my second try with LSD. The first—at a motorcycle bar in Newark—resulted in a hallucinated psychic connection with a blonde at the end of the bar. I can read her thoughts, I told my friend Andy. He dragged his cigarette and chuckled out smoke.
“Heheheh…Chuck’s trippin’ balls.”
I was an acid virgin. They waved the flames of their lighters in my face…
“… look at the color trails … oooo … ooo … Chuck’s trippin’ balls…”…
…then told me I was ruining their ride, and dropped me off at home.
I wrote an angry letter to myself—160 pages—and went to sleep twenty-two hours later.
Those guys were assholes, Sang said, you have to trip with me. One week later, he called me. We’re tripping this weekend. Come over tonight, it was Friday, and plan to stay the weekend. And so I did. And so we sat on his couch, sipping our juice, slowly, waiting. And then.
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Sang Lee is Dead: memoirs in fragments
by Charles Bivona
[It's my Leaves of Grass]
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