Fragment #12 - Going out

It's late, by some obscene miracle I get to the bathroom without falling over, being sick and/or stepping on someone, a common symptom of the many chemical substances imbibed. After finishing the main business of cleansing my aura I decide to look into the mirror to reflect and ponder how embarrassing I have been. A quick run through of the memories at hand seemed to imply that I would not be the subject of fun, rage or scorn for the weeks to come. I have to go home, a sickly realisation that if I finish that drink in the hall then I may be in trouble, possibly requiring hospital treatment. Not what I would normally deem to be a bad night, a success in fact on many fronts. But could the people round me understand? No, they would look on with a mixture of contempt, anger and pity at the unconscious heap of alcohol and illegal substances lying in the middle of the floor, slowly convulsing out bile-green vomit into the carpet at their feet. I made my way out of the bog and made my excuses.
Lies, all lies. What happened dear reader is that I have told myself a naughty fib. It's only ten past midnight so I decide to accept the kind offer of a passing acquaintance to go to a club. I take a few bombs of MDMA to help me along the way, there is nothing like a few class 'A' drugs to perk you up before going out dancing. So speed procured and snorted, I head out into the crisp May night. As I go past the supermarket in Woodlands Road I decide that it would be a bad thing to be caught at the door of the club with the three tabs of LSD that are wrapped in tinfoil in my pocket, I offer them round but find no takers, so waste not want not, I triple drop acid before wading into the flashing strobe of multicoloured laser lighted hedonism of what is promised to be a foam party.
Ah, the phenomenon known as the foam party. Loud thumping electronic music with synchronised lighting and – yes - foam. It’s like a wet T-shirt competition where everyone takes part. Bikinis, boob tubes and numerous other items of clothing, many too small to warrant a name. You never go to these things if you want to keep dry, these events can only be described by the consummate scholar as… lubricated. Everyone is given a coating of dilute suds, rampant dancing, copious drinking and so much eye candy that most warm blooded men of any persuasion fall to their knees and thank the great maker for inspiring such evil as a counterpoint. Week night be damned, tonight is for the relentless pursuit of the basest pleasures. Non intellectual conversation only instigated for the living of dreams had when fifteen years old. But for a man like me it could be described as water, water everywhere but not a drop to drink. Now is a time to look, appreciate, enjoy and flirt meaninglessly. Because, if I were to meet someone goodly enough to want to sleep with me I may not be capable. Seeing that I have taken a lot of hallucinogenic drugs. I don’t want to find myself in the throws of passionate foreplay being watched by thousands of yellow and pink penguins with jack-knives held fast in their beaks, dead cold eyes staring, waiting for the moment of climax before attending to the gory duty of post coitus evisceration and eating.
No, I think tonight I'll just have harmless fun and then go home to that melting pot of misery.