From a Poisoning to an Anti-Climax
Dec. 4th, 2004 10:00 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ed_rexMy apartment resembles nothing less than the sty of a nicotine-addicted S. domesticus; Laura is off at a friend's birthday party; and I was poisoned on Thursday - yet I feel lovely.
First of all, to get the anti-climax out of the way, Laura's sister has calmed down and my execution has been postponed and - quite possibly - cancelled all-together.
After a marvellous 30 hours of talk, sex, laughter, music, chess (I won 2 out of 3, thank you very much, Gentle Readers) and - eventually - breakfast, Laura spoke with her sister in order to find out where in the hell the Queen's Head pup actually is (it must be new; though a google-search just now revealed its location, the telephone book was silent) and was told, first, that said sister would be working late and, second, that she (the sister) had calmed down a little. It seems she has decided she, sort of, trusts Laura's judgement and, anyway, isn't going to have me beat to a bloody pulp on account of that might estrange her (the sister) from Laura.
All of which largely pleased me, though I had geared myself up for the confrontation and so was left somewhat at a loss for what to do after I saw Laura onto the streetcar.
Esrtwhile, Thursday evening started very well. After 3 or 4 years of on-and-off internet correspondence, I finally had the pleasure of meeting KT in person. We had a few drinks at Gorilla Monsoon's and, despite her recently broken heart, she was neither a whiner nor self-involved. We talked and laughed and occasionally compared scars before she had to make her way north to the savage wilds of subburbia, where she is unfortunate enough to have her lair.
After which, I soujourned on foot along Queen Street to attend at the opening of an art-show of an aquaintance, one Greg, a strange and interesting queer whose (mostly) found-art sometimes appeals to me quite a lot. In any case, Vern and Helen were expected to be present, I'd missed his last show at the Drake, and wanted to make a showing of myself.
I'd had three pints with KT and hadn't eatern since lunch. As it will at art-openings, the wine flowed freely. As it sometimes will at art-openings, so did joints on the smokers' lounge hanging over the sidewalk of Queen Street West. And as I often will, I partook of more than one joint that was passed around.
No problem, thought Young Geoffrey. I haven't had that much to drink and I took a cautious number of tokes, refusing more than a couple of proffered joints.
The art was mostly a variation of Greek-style icons - pictures and models of Jesus et al, framed and accompanied by backgrounds both found and created by Greg. I won't bore you here with my thoughts on the intellectual bankruptcy of most post-modern (if that is the correct term) art, but will admit it wasn't my cup of tea. There was one abstract painting that struck my eye and I am still thinking of buying that, however; interestingly (perhaps), it was the only piece that Greg actually created from scratch.
However, my musings about art - and just about anything else - were stopped by a sudden trip to the bathroom. A quick and mostly ineffectual dump later and I at first thought I had merely miscalculated: beer + wine + a little more dope than I had expected leading to virtigo and a little nausea.
But when I rose from my temporary throne I realized it was a good deal worse than that.
I could barely stand up.
I wasn't dizzy (though I was a little nauseous), but I was weak, my body trembling, and my mouth suddenly as dry as it has been since that time I got de-hydrated playing soccer under a blazing sun after a wedding and reception during which I had more than drunk my fill.
Somehow, I managed to extricate myself from the bathroom and spotted vernski. I staggered (quite literally) towards him. "You've got to take me home," I said thickly, with only the greatest difficulty prying my parched lips from my teeth enough for him to understand me.
I staggered again and he caught me, making sure I didn't fall, then gathered kosikova. Between the two of them, one on each side of me, they got me downstairs and outside, hailed a cab and poured me into it.
There was a brief discussion of what to do next - hospital? home? - and home was decided upon. All the while, I was remarkably lucid, but had a hell of a time actually speaking. As I said above, I experienced great difficulty in unsticking my lips from my teeth - I've never felt so dry.
Arriving at my place, I wasn't able to unluck my front door, finally giving the keys to vernski.
He and kosikova got me inside and put me to bed. I threw up, but had already told them I was going to and so there was something beside the futon to throw up into. Later, when I thought I would again, it was still there, but clean now, ready for another batch.
I don't know if they stayed 15 minutes or a couple of hours, but they stayed long enough.
Christ almighty, it's good to have friends. I've been drunk; I've been stoned; I've been stoned and drunk. But they'd never seen me in such a state and they moved when they had to.
I think one of the joints passed to me was dosed with something, something I've never had before. Vernski made some inquiries and some of the symptoms - the incredibly dry mouth in particular - were said to resemble Rohipnol, but I don't think that was it. The whole point (or, at least, the significant side-point) of such drugs is that the victim doesn't remember what happens after taking it.
Laura suggested it sounded like crystal meth (a scary thought), and maybe it was.
In any case, I remember what happened. Remember feeling, very suddenly, very sick. Remember being barely able to stand. Remember struggling to speak in such a way as to make myself understood. Remember being very fucking scared, because I had never felt anything like what I was feeling then - and, especially, being aware - lucidly aware - that I had never felt that way.
Christ. If I'd been on my own, I'd likely have fallen down within a block or two and wouldn't have been able to get up again for god knows how long. And people would have stepped over me, just another Parkdale sad-case ...
Well, happily for me, the recovery from ... whateveritwas ... was quick. I managed to wake up more or less in time for work on Friday - feeling badly hung over, yes, but functional - and slowly improved as the day went on. By the time Laura picked me up I was almost normal. By the time we'd had a couple or three drinks at Gorilla Monsoons and then retired to my place, I was pretty close to normal.
We even watched a movie (Rushmore - about which, maybe, more some other time) and by the time we awoke this morning, to feed the cats and make love for the third and fourth and fifth (or whatever) time, I felt fine.
But still.
What a fucking scary experience Thursday was.
Gentle Readers, please consider this suggestion: Don't take a toke from someone you don't know. (And consider the possibility that this is yet another argument against Prohibition.)
Love to you all,
Young Geoffrey
First of all, to get the anti-climax out of the way, Laura's sister has calmed down and my execution has been postponed and - quite possibly - cancelled all-together.
After a marvellous 30 hours of talk, sex, laughter, music, chess (I won 2 out of 3, thank you very much, Gentle Readers) and - eventually - breakfast, Laura spoke with her sister in order to find out where in the hell the Queen's Head pup actually is (it must be new; though a google-search just now revealed its location, the telephone book was silent) and was told, first, that said sister would be working late and, second, that she (the sister) had calmed down a little. It seems she has decided she, sort of, trusts Laura's judgement and, anyway, isn't going to have me beat to a bloody pulp on account of that might estrange her (the sister) from Laura.
All of which largely pleased me, though I had geared myself up for the confrontation and so was left somewhat at a loss for what to do after I saw Laura onto the streetcar.
Esrtwhile, Thursday evening started very well. After 3 or 4 years of on-and-off internet correspondence, I finally had the pleasure of meeting KT in person. We had a few drinks at Gorilla Monsoon's and, despite her recently broken heart, she was neither a whiner nor self-involved. We talked and laughed and occasionally compared scars before she had to make her way north to the savage wilds of subburbia, where she is unfortunate enough to have her lair.
After which, I soujourned on foot along Queen Street to attend at the opening of an art-show of an aquaintance, one Greg, a strange and interesting queer whose (mostly) found-art sometimes appeals to me quite a lot. In any case, Vern and Helen were expected to be present, I'd missed his last show at the Drake, and wanted to make a showing of myself.
I'd had three pints with KT and hadn't eatern since lunch. As it will at art-openings, the wine flowed freely. As it sometimes will at art-openings, so did joints on the smokers' lounge hanging over the sidewalk of Queen Street West. And as I often will, I partook of more than one joint that was passed around.
No problem, thought Young Geoffrey. I haven't had that much to drink and I took a cautious number of tokes, refusing more than a couple of proffered joints.
The art was mostly a variation of Greek-style icons - pictures and models of Jesus et al, framed and accompanied by backgrounds both found and created by Greg. I won't bore you here with my thoughts on the intellectual bankruptcy of most post-modern (if that is the correct term) art, but will admit it wasn't my cup of tea. There was one abstract painting that struck my eye and I am still thinking of buying that, however; interestingly (perhaps), it was the only piece that Greg actually created from scratch.
However, my musings about art - and just about anything else - were stopped by a sudden trip to the bathroom. A quick and mostly ineffectual dump later and I at first thought I had merely miscalculated: beer + wine + a little more dope than I had expected leading to virtigo and a little nausea.
But when I rose from my temporary throne I realized it was a good deal worse than that.
I could barely stand up.
I wasn't dizzy (though I was a little nauseous), but I was weak, my body trembling, and my mouth suddenly as dry as it has been since that time I got de-hydrated playing soccer under a blazing sun after a wedding and reception during which I had more than drunk my fill.
Somehow, I managed to extricate myself from the bathroom and spotted vernski. I staggered (quite literally) towards him. "You've got to take me home," I said thickly, with only the greatest difficulty prying my parched lips from my teeth enough for him to understand me.
I staggered again and he caught me, making sure I didn't fall, then gathered kosikova. Between the two of them, one on each side of me, they got me downstairs and outside, hailed a cab and poured me into it.
There was a brief discussion of what to do next - hospital? home? - and home was decided upon. All the while, I was remarkably lucid, but had a hell of a time actually speaking. As I said above, I experienced great difficulty in unsticking my lips from my teeth - I've never felt so dry.
Arriving at my place, I wasn't able to unluck my front door, finally giving the keys to vernski.
He and kosikova got me inside and put me to bed. I threw up, but had already told them I was going to and so there was something beside the futon to throw up into. Later, when I thought I would again, it was still there, but clean now, ready for another batch.
I don't know if they stayed 15 minutes or a couple of hours, but they stayed long enough.
Christ almighty, it's good to have friends. I've been drunk; I've been stoned; I've been stoned and drunk. But they'd never seen me in such a state and they moved when they had to.
I think one of the joints passed to me was dosed with something, something I've never had before. Vernski made some inquiries and some of the symptoms - the incredibly dry mouth in particular - were said to resemble Rohipnol, but I don't think that was it. The whole point (or, at least, the significant side-point) of such drugs is that the victim doesn't remember what happens after taking it.
Laura suggested it sounded like crystal meth (a scary thought), and maybe it was.
In any case, I remember what happened. Remember feeling, very suddenly, very sick. Remember being barely able to stand. Remember struggling to speak in such a way as to make myself understood. Remember being very fucking scared, because I had never felt anything like what I was feeling then - and, especially, being aware - lucidly aware - that I had never felt that way.
Christ. If I'd been on my own, I'd likely have fallen down within a block or two and wouldn't have been able to get up again for god knows how long. And people would have stepped over me, just another Parkdale sad-case ...
Well, happily for me, the recovery from ... whateveritwas ... was quick. I managed to wake up more or less in time for work on Friday - feeling badly hung over, yes, but functional - and slowly improved as the day went on. By the time Laura picked me up I was almost normal. By the time we'd had a couple or three drinks at Gorilla Monsoons and then retired to my place, I was pretty close to normal.
We even watched a movie (Rushmore - about which, maybe, more some other time) and by the time we awoke this morning, to feed the cats and make love for the third and fourth and fifth (or whatever) time, I felt fine.
But still.
What a fucking scary experience Thursday was.
Gentle Readers, please consider this suggestion: Don't take a toke from someone you don't know. (And consider the possibility that this is yet another argument against Prohibition.)
Love to you all,
Young Geoffrey