All I Wanted Was a Pepsi


Maybe if I talk about it I’ll feel a lot better. Nah, I don’t want to. It’s okay. I’m writing this character. He got dosed with acid at a halloween party. Ended up in the mental hospital. Was he really nuts, or was it just temporary psychosis.

The doctor told me L.S.D., it’s been theorized, may mimick what is called a ‘model psychosis’ state. There has been limited research into the effects of these drugs because of the legality involved in doing studies with them, but the idea is that someone who takes acid may experience a temporary state of psychosis, which comes and then fades as the drug leaves their system. It was even thought that mental illness could be studied by studying the effects of the drug in this way.

I tell you this, to reassure you

I know you’re still feeling the effects on your mind, and feeling unsure about some things. The world might seem changed and you feel a bit precarious in your relationship to reality. I’m here to tell you that will go away and go back to normal. It very much should. So don’t fret too much and just try to take it easy. It’s a drug. Those feelings, it’s the drug. Now, we do need to keep you under observation for a while to make sure you’re safe. And.. to make sure there’s no lingering effects. But mostly to get you rested up and back out into the world. But don’t worry about that now. The important thing to remember is you’re safe now, you’re in a safe place.


Suffice it to say, what they tell you, about these tipsy states of unsuredness, these things being temporary, that’s the shared delusion. You can sense it when they tell you getting back to normal is what we’re after. You put your head in your hands and lean back against the edge of the chair. It’s hardly comfortable, but it’s your hands, your head in your hands. And that at least makes sense.

It’s a wanted laugh, this poster boy, he who considers himself the quintessential outsider, and budding artist. He could as easily fall into a face first cry. The whole world a place of misunderstanding for his plans and what he wants to be, the things he dreams. How could it ever be a normal to get back to, when it has never been close to seeming a place quite right before. Become and being. He sits up in the dark of a hospital wing, then shuffles in the dark across to the white sheeted bed in the pale light of the moon through the window. His gown and the indignities of being half clothed in issued garments, allowing no expression or difference from the others here, just a therapeutic sameness, blank and blanching. A punk prince, smudged out of garish makeup. So much for the tyrant, king.

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