A few months ago, before D.H. skipped town for the summer, we had planned, like we often did, to go out on a Saturday night to proverbially paint the town a bright shade of maroon (the store was all out of Fire Engine Red). The plan consisted of going out, have a nice evening with some friends, and enjoy the bar and maybe a party. That plan did not, however, contain any component remotely resembling any of our partying party being under the influence of any Class A drugs.
And you all know how my plans usually work out.
I picked D.H. and her friend, we’ll call him P., up.
A little background on P. So far, he had been a great friend to D.H., always being innocuously flirty, as she classified it, and generally just enjoyable to be around. I had always gotten the impression from him that he wanted more, and that again, D.H. was mistaking his flirtatious nature as being friendly and funny. After many conversations on the topic, her and I agreed to disagree.
The evening started uneventfully, and we partook of the bar scene and it’s strange and intoxicating concoctions (well, okay, I didn’t, I was designated driver). After the excitement of the bar began to wane, P. suggested our party partake of a party.
So be it.
By this point, P is drunk, D.H. is tipsy, and I’m getting rather annoyed at both.
We arrive at the party. Upon our entrance, I notice that I’m getting some odd looks. Now, I may not be the best looking human alive, but I’m not that creepy looking. Take a look at my picture in the upper right corner of this web page, and I believe you’ll agree.
I make my way to the kitchen, and begin rummaging for a glass to get some water. A couple of guys, as well as D.H. come in. They’re making with the “Let’s get it on” stuff, eyeing me suspiciously, and generally just being a couple of drunk college guys. P is nowhere to be found, probably off trying for the life of him to act suave and composed so he can get laid.
By this point, I’m beginning to get suspicious of their suspicion, so I inject myself into their conversation, and they finally indicate why they are keeping a watchful eye or two on me.
They think I’m an undercover cop.
Again, I’d like to direct your gaze to the upper-right hand corner of this page. Now, I’m confused, because this is not the first time someone has thought this. Actually, when I go to the bar, it happens with frightening frequency. Do I really look like a cop? Is it my countenance? My oft-formal attire? My vast array of geek accessories attached to my belt?
Oh well, it’s still fun to give half-drunk underage drinkers a coronary every now and then.
After a few knowing glances from D.H., I less than casually pried her away from the fawning frat boys and we stepped outside to the porch to enjoy the midnight air and passing cop cars. Well, we would have enjoyed it, if D.H. hadn’t started to get introspective, reflective, and teary-eyed.
Hmmm. That’s odd.
She usually doesn’t get like this when she has been imbibing. She usually gets goofy and flirtacious, or ready-to-push-the-button-and-nuke-the-friggin’-world pissed, and she knows it. I’m the one who gets whiny when drunk.
Either the global poles have reversed, or Houston, we have a problem.
Finally, we pry P away from his glassy-eyed golddigging and I take him home first. After dropping him off and flipping him off, D.H. and I make our way to IHOP.
She decides to tell me a little secret.
She’s feeling funny.
Well, alcohol has a way of doing that.
But this is more than just that firewater-induced funny, this is pure, unadulterated “Wow, the rest of the world sure looks interesting, and I just noticed my skin crawls whenever anything, such as air, touches it.”
D.H. described her symptoms. D.H. described the probable cause.
P, a known user of the drug Ecstacy, had, before I arrived, given her an open beer.
That smug bastard.
D.H. was now rolling on X, and wasn’t exactly sure what to think.
Having spent a majority of my life in the public education system, I have become familiar, at least in passing, with a quite amazingly broad range of drugs, handguns, knives, and centuries-old torture techniques, and my knowledge includes some fun factoids on the Drug Ecstasy, aka X, E, Adam, hug, beans, and XTC:
1. The clinical name is methylenedioxymethamphetamine, or MDMA (okay, so I didn’t have this memorized, I had to look this one up; now shut up)
2. It’s chemically semilar to mescaline and methamphetamines.
3. X is effectively a Seratonin Reuptake Inhibitor, which oddly enough, is the same thing that a lot of anti-depressants are (although they operate a lot more gradually and with less of that whole toxicity thing).
4. It stimulates feelings of love, joy, and is often accompanied with highly enhanced sensory perception, almost orgasmic in nature, hence the name “Ecstasy”.
5 hours later, with the sun coming up, D.H. was finally coming down. After making one final check to see if she was going to be alright, I finally went home and passed out, exhausted from the ordeal.
I have since made it clear to her that if I am ever presented the opportunity, I will help P get intimate with my Friend Appreciation Bat. Not that I minded being there for her, or that I don’t want to help her, but for her to be thrown into that situation by someone with the scruples of a politician does not make for a smiley Kevin. I’m not prone to violence, but for some reason, this is equivalent in my mind to slipping her some Rufies with the intent of raping her.
So, P, if you’re reading this, I have one, simple suggestion for you:
You might want to transfer to a college that’s not in this town. Or, just to be on the safe side, this state.
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