Drugs are a hell of a drug.

Outside the rain puddles were deep enough to drown deer. I was wading through them past the cars in the darkness of GDP's driveway. Where was GDP? Why was I in his driveway swimming in rain puddles? I was still trying to text Larry Hobson but I couldn't remember how to spell 'Help.' Somehow I was in New Brunswick again, but it couldn't be right, I was just in Newark. What kind of time portal had I stepped into? I spent the whole day popping xanax and drinking a fine german weiss beer and yet now here I was crawling through a backyard far far from my home. Someone was worried about me. Strange hands kept grabbing me and urging me toward the house but I resisted. Who's hands were these? All I knew were that my glasses were somewhere in that bush I was wrestling.

"Get out of the that bush, come inside!"

"No," I said, "my glasses are in here somewhere. The damn thing has eaten them!"

"Come inside, its warm in there."

"What about my glasses, I have to see don't I?"

"We'll find them in the morning man, people PEE on this bush."

It was all too much. There I was in the darkness falling deeper and deeper into a sharp hungry shrub, my knees deep in the wet ground. Wet from urine, wet from someone's blood. Jesus, I thought, my hands are all over this ground, grasping for lost glasses in the damp leaves and cigarette butts, what about hygeine?

"Listen," I said. "Forget about the glasses I've got to get home. Look at these hands!"

I was being half carried up the stairs toward a couch, my sagging pants past my knees tripping my each and ever stumbled drunk step. The PCP was at work on my mind and casting dark leaden shadow puppets across my vision. Those tattooed arms guiding me were foreign and horrible and threatening in their kindness. Somewhere in the darkness atom bombs were being carried gently past me by shrunken men with sick agendas, their long index fingers pressed menacingly to their pursed lips in silent bids of quiet. I tried to step on them as I passed but they moved quickly.

I remember texting Frank in the car vaguely. I tried to say, these bastards are taking me to god knows where to execute me and throw my body in the sand, please for the love of god get me help and do it fast! But my fingers were drunk and would not spell. All he would ever receive that night were the scrambled letters of an alphabet that made no more sense to the author than the recipient.

"How can you even look at that phone?" GDP asked at one point.

"Ah can arble see dah baola bham damner fucking shit! I'll see a somha halilalba."

I wouldn't have smoked the dipped cigarettes at the show except that the xanax takes away all of my anxiety. Usually before taking a drug I toil and worry over the ramifications of what I am about to do. But with more than 20mgs of anti-anxiety medication coarsing through my veins and a six pack of beer breaking down in my system, I had little to no reproach. It was as simple as pass and smoke. Then they put a microphone in my hand, but the wall was so beautiful it didn't matter.

"Let me dip this cigarette in that," I had told my friend with the jar of liquid in his pocket. "Let me just dip this cigarette in that. I love you guys, we are having so much fun."

"Lets wait until you peform before I do that."

Nonsense. Just before we took the stage GDP said something like, "your breath smells like a magic marker." And then DJ Pryme was jetting down the Turnpike while New Jersey crumbled and decayed into the blackness out the window of the backseat I was crowded into.

"We don't think its a good idea for you to go home, seeing the condition you are in." Who had said that?

I texted Frank, let me sleep at your house.

Frank: Yeah, sure come on over the couch is open.

Shape: Okay, I'm high on angel dust but I have half this wet cigarette left over, I'm coming.

Frank: Look, Gramps has been bugging I don't think its a good idea for me to have anyone over right now.

Goddammit, Frank!

I woke up on a couch in my long johns thinking, how am I going to go to work? I tried to stand up but the weight of my hangover buckled my knees and I collapsed on the ground. I had to pee terribly but GDP's roommate came walking down the hallway naked but for a towel around his waste and closed the bathroom door behind him. Flashes of the previous night sparked and turned my brain into a morbid Fourth of July of Memory. Where were my glasses? Why had I been wrestling with the Urine Bush? Who had I called? I stumbled outside and GDP was walking a happy puppy in the front sidewalk. What had happened while I was on drugs? Had GDP bought a puppy at some point while we were tripping?

"I don't know," He said.

I gave him a hug and started my long walk in the morning cold to the train station.