That Time I Did Edibles With A 19-Year-Old Gym Lad And Thought I was Oscar Wilde -April 2021

Hey friends!!! I know it be told far and wide by many a man or womxn that literally no one gives a fuck about your drug story. It isn’t as interesting as you think it is. You really DID just have to be there, also off your tits on DMT. So luckily for YOU I plan on retelling this tumultuous turn of events with such apt description and vivid detail that either you really WILL feel like you were there and thus can viscerally enjoy the same experience, or I’ll give myself PTSD, or both!

I begin, stuffy, blocked nosed, sitting on the sofa in my sub-standardly decorated living room with two small leather sofas, Ikea mirror and fake fireplace. Sitting next to me is a 19-year-old boy from Harrow, who’s haircut I find reminiscent of my cousins in 2017, the short back and sides so short and broccoli top so long it makes him look like he’s been wearing an open-top balaclava for 3 months and the top was the only place that got enough light that hair was able to grow.

(see reference pic: this hat. this isn’t him, but it’s the gist. With the open top cut-out! Its literally the exact opposite of a kippah. Maybe it’s an anti-Semitic hat. Maybe that’s its exact purpose, to socially profess anti-semitic views. But doesn’t it look like it was specifically designed to give you the most aggressive short back and sides possible?)

Now, I don’t want to be the sort of 3rd year to shit on the novel drug experiences of younger years, as I feel it’s very important to experiment, but I think it’s fair to say I do draw the line at someone in a fila cap and trackies standing in front of the mirror at 6am shouting, “I JUST LOVE DRUGS!” while you’re trying to enjoy your pukka ‘feel new’ herbal tea. I actually had a video of this, and I frequently threatened to send it to his mum if he ever annoyed me, but I realised that what I had wasnt just minor ammunition but an actual nuclear weapon that if sent to anyone would possibly destroy his career, especially if he goes into athletics which he may well do; I imagine if they found a video of Lance Armstrong screaming I JUST LOVE DRUGS! at full volume a couple nights before the tour de France, it might have cut the doping investigation down from 21 months to about 9 seconds. So there I was, 70 percent bored, watching an episode of friends I could recite from memory during which I came to a rather bold conclusion. A statement I am nervous to make: they never quite found Rachel’s funny. SORRY X

Somehow though, Fred convinced me to join him in his debaucherous hedonism. After burning the first batch, we regrouped, got our shit together and heartily tucked into the perfect 2nd. What followed is a tale as old as time. Anyone with the nerve to complain the edibles ‘aren’t really doing anything’ can take their smug arrogance and shove it up their arse, and should expect to be slapped in the face by THC’s big, succulent, vengeful titty, as I was. Suckle on the Teet of Vindication™ xx

While for about 10 minutes I thoroughly amused myself with Instagram filters and made myself heartily laugh by staring at my reflection, and then simply my hand, soon the ‘good vibes’ got in with the wrong crowd and took a turn for the worst. An unsettling feeling spread in my chest, and then…I guess some people might call this ‘the moment.’ The deciding point where you get to choose if you ride the euphoric wave all the way into Elysium bay, or whether you’re sucked into a maelstrom of regret, panic and mugs of hot water that other people get for you. My brain chose the latter. I say ‘my brain’ instead of ‘I’ as I fully retain that my brain works independently of me. My Brain is in charge and Me just has to do everything it says even if Me doesn’t want to. If My Brain wants to have a 30-minute panic attack about how I’m consistently not reaching my full potential while Me just wants to watch Fresh Meat, then the former is what I will be doing. If Me feels like going out to a party but My Brain wants to instead sit and think about how one day my parents will die, I’ll be spending my Saturday night contemplating wreath arrangements and which golf club my dad would prefer to have his ashes scattered at (the ultimate insight into his whole character). So, of course, there I am in the midst of what is solidly the WORST half an hour of my narcotic career so far, with a 19-year-old weed fiend as my carer who keeps telling me all I need is to sit down and 'have a cig and chill out!!!’.

Lo and behold, my dramatic ways do not leave me at my most vulnerable moment. For an AMBULANCE has been called! Oh joy!!! Its FINALLY happened. I thought I’d gotten away thus far in my uni career not having had an ambulance called for me at the slightest ingestion of drugs, and not being labelled that Weak White Bitch™️ (despite ticking every other box; from Chiswick, had their uni garden power-washed). I thought that title was only reserved for the Freyas, Millies and Lydias of the world who end up in hospital after 2 bumps of K. But here we GO. Time to re-join my people. Clutching the phone, insisting to a paramedic that my heart is going to give out any moment, I COMMAND them to come to the house. However, I forget the NHS do not work on a command-basis as they are not my royal subjects- and also that I am not the queen of England.

‘Mam, this is not a medical emergency, your life is not in danger.’

‘HOW THE FUCK DO YOU KNOW YOU DON’T FEEL LIKE YOU’RE FALLING OFF A CLI-‘

Actually no, I think the way to describe it is when you think you’ve sat down where there’s no chair but then right at the last moment there actually is a chair there. That’s what it felt like. A constant feeling of OH NO IM GONNA- and then you don’t. which only makes the fear worse. ON A LOOP.

‘Fine. We can send an ambulance out but they will only be there within 2 hours.’

Then she hung up, with sass. Last time I checked, the NHS were not allowed to be passive aggressive when giving medical care? Imagine a passive aggressive nurse administering an MRI:

“And can you just pop your wedding ring off for me? Shouldn’t be much of a problem, you remove it every Saturday night when you’re going out with "the guys" don’t you xx”

I wondered whether the paramedics would tend to me with the same reluctance, checking my pulse and rolling their eyes. But instead, while they tended to ‘actual emergencies,’ I had the pleasure of calling my friend telling him ‘hey erm I know you’re quarantining cos your whole house have corona and stuff but I really think I might die and sometimes you kind of make me feel safe like you are my guardian father protector saviour person so can you come over please now please come over please now thank you (((((:’

He runs over, hands in the pocket of a workwear Harrington jacket, low rise doc martens, boyishly chuckling as he sees me. His outfit makes him seem like that ‘coolest guy in school that everyone fancies and would expect to be a dickhead but actually is really nice’ type in every coming of age film set in either Bristol or east London or Seattle. And here he is. Handing me kitchen roll while I chun down the side of my front doorsteps.

‘Ta for this by the way’

‘Ah its really no worries’

‘Good. Were you busy or?’

‘Na just watchin New Girl’

‘Oh good. tissue.’

‘Yep.’

The chunning ceases. I rest my hands on my balcony and wistfully look to the sky. I break into an Oscar Wilde monologue - obviously. I chose Mabel Chiltern’s, from An Ideal Husband.

“Tommy just proposed to me AGAIN-”

sick drips down my chin.

“-Tommy really does NOTHING but propose to me!”

…..It was one of those moments that made me really love what I am. And I feel that’s the one thing that’s missing from the Oscar Wilde reboots. More mess and vomit. More queer culture drug benders. Because I think Wilde probably really would have been wild if born now. He’d be notorious on the gay club scene. You can imagine him spewing his guts up outside a G-A-Y in Soho and then elegantly but self-consciously wiping his mouth with his ring finger. Then, flicking his relaxed quiff back, pulling up his velvet flares and tottering back to the dance floor to resume his role as chief body roller in a writhing group of scantily clad, perfectly-interwoven men, so lithe and mercurial they're 3 pairs of beige culottes away from a contemporary dance piece.

After that little reappearance of a bag of tangfastics and chicken ramen super noodles, and after my theatrics had been duly applauded, I felt a lot better. In fact, I felt so good that I lit a cigarette and proceeded to smoke it like a French bulimic who’s vommy escapades only contribute to their chic, high fashion vibe. But unfortunately, I am not Julie Vignon de Courcie, and vomming in a Fat Face fleece doesn’t have quite that same tone of insidious glamour, it more screams, my abusive jumper is giving me an eating disorder. It wasn’t until halfway through my cigarette that I was absolutely SERVED for being cunty enough to unsolicitedly perform an Oscar Wilde monologue after just whitying, and the spins came back with a vengeance. Rightfully so. So, up to bed I was taken, hobbling and taking my friend’s arm to stabilise me like the little old woman I am. A brief prologue of 20 minutes of bodily tremors coursing through the mattress and mutual shrieks, and I finally nodded off.

There’s something about someone leaving at dawn. It feels… old-timey. As if your 15th century lover has come to spend one last night with you before daybreak, when they must leave to embark upon a long quest, which must be at sunrise so as not to be seen; cloak on, venturing into the soft break of day. And you don’t know how long it will be until you see them again. ….my friend’s reason was more that he was RIDDLED with corona, but still. Dawn is kind of... a liminal space. A time when if someone slips off, you don’t know if it counts. Because nothing and no one exists at that time. Almost like they were never really there. But I know he was. I remember how I felt when he told me he had to go. I wanted him to stay here holding me firmly but gently beneath him, making me feel ok. But everything is blurry at 5am. Nothing has a sharp edge, and people are just shapes that you want to cuddle you.

Next, a terrifying hammering on the front door. Who the fuck is awake and ready for beef at 5 am?! A feral milkman?! But I always pictured them to be the literal EPITOME of friendliness?? With a big doughy face and cute all-white VW van that runs on milk. What could I have done to anger him? I then remember that I don’t actually get milk delivered. Is that why he’s angry? I trepidatiously venture downstairs. We open the front door. Two tall figures stand leaning either side of the doorway, arms folded and looking at me with one eyebrow raised each, unimpressed. I glance at their uniforms that read PARAMEDIC. The one holding the defibrillator box looks me up and down in my blanket and no trousers. I don’t think they’re here to give me a cuddle.

Matter-of-fact-ly, like the words were a fly squashed flat by a swatter, the male paramedic asked, “do you still need us?” the speech seemed to be emanating from his manically twitching eye. Well… if you’re here for a cwtch, I really do... But that didn’t seem like the best thing to say in that moment. Is it even possible to give a passive-aggressive cuddle? I feel like that’s an oxymoron. Unless maybe you’re spooning and the big spoon is bitterly and intentionally blowing your hair out of their mouth even when they don’t need to anymore because they’re still sour that they have to be the big spoon? Honestly, serious red flag behaviour.

“No I dont……..sorryyyyyyy….” I embarrassingly mumbled to the paramedics, looking down at my bare feet.

---WAIT ACTUALLY I HAVE HAD A PASSIVE AGGRESSIVE CUDDLE ONCE! When I lived with an emotionless toad who said ‘fine you have 60 seconds’ when I asked him for a cuddle when I was literally bawling my eyes out. He wasn’t huffing my hair out his mouth, but his muscles were very tense and he kept clearing his throat on purpose. Pathetic.

The paramedics left very dignifiedly to be honest. No bollocking, just, ‘right then.’ (said his eye), before swiftly turning and walking down the steps and slamming the ambulance doors. Petty x but hopefully the slam would have shocked the twitch out of him :)))))) x Turns out, neurotics and narcotics really don’t work as a duo, only as a catchy title. Uppers and truckers? Hallucinogens and Fake Friends? -sounds like a Skins episode title. One of them must be a good pairing? God, I really wish I was good at drugs. I really do.