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I was sitting in the bingo hall, very high, feeling very jittery with all my feelings distorted. All of a sudden, I found my partner’s behavior to be extremely attractive, and I felt so lucky to be with him, and it gave me so much joy. It must have been destiny that it was then that I finally started to realize my dream personal projects — the platform, you know… just the feeling of gratitude I felt to be… alive. My senses experienced a pleasantly shaky sensation; it felt as if my mouth, brain, muscles, and skin had been chewing some very potent Sichuan peppers. The bingo hall’s sound — the distinct percussion of plastic balls being blown in a closet — lingered; in fact, all my hearing and consciousness had been in this drifting state.

I have to admit, I panicked a little bit with a splash of paranoia: I felt that I was doing something wrong and had been found. I am not sure, but I don’t think I have this feeling with the other brand of gummies (SkyMint Peach, this brand being Pure Options Green Apple). When the other one kicked in, I felt very creative and relaxed, … I felt horny; but with this one, I felt pleasantly dissonant or disassociated with reality and, most importantly, the mollification of physical pain. Both my knees and my lower back had been marinated in an alien numbness.

I would still say that I am relatively creative, trying my best to be productive in achieving my goals and toiling mentally to take the first step in putting in minimal effort. In all modesty, I have been addicted to abusing marijuana, to be put in a dreamy state of feeling constant love and bliss, where music and movies and sexual activities can be so pleasurable. I really enjoy this feeling, and I find it a fascinating experience. The music in the background is like in movies where they portray a character lost in thought; all the noise and your own consciousness become smeared into the background.

My lips were stinging like right before they cracked up; I guess I had been taking the substance for far too long, enjoying this feeling more than I feared being judged or caught. I’m not proud of it either; I understand the practice of using weed is still broadly accepted as a norm. I was simply stating a fact that I was sitting in a public gathering, a traditional game that mature people normally appreciate — bingo, tasting the lingering spice of my Chinese snacks off my tongue, having an epiphany about the purpose of my life, appreciating how leisure activities are passed down from generation to generation, culture after culture throughout history.

Oh, I must have looked suspicious as hell when I nodded and smiled “hi” to an elderly Mexican guy, when I went to use the bathroom, it was so obvious that I was high right then seeing my own distorted face and warped red eyes reflected in the bathroom mirror.

I had a fleeting thought that felt so familiar yet so strange: “…something…” Right then, I was thinking about how I had once again become addicted despite my intentions. Instead of coughing all the time and not being able to taste anything, I now preferred heavily seasoned food and could genuinely feel the saltiness attack my tongue in waves. I was as high as any sentient being whose nervous system is overwhelmed by chemical reactions induced by these organic compounds could possibly be.

I wonder if I should truly publish these drug-induced delusional blurbs of thoughts that will eventually and perhaps frequently be infested with insatiable horniness that will most definitely require heavy censorship, coming from an insignificant speck of dust across all the time in all the universes of limitless sentient lives and cultures. Then I thought, why not? I don’t really know you, and you really don’t know me; our sparks of intelligence only briefly pass each other nearby in an infinity of darkness of voids that will exist beyond all matters filled with ripples of energy fluctuations where barely any consciousness emerges. Hell, the language that I use now may be erased without a single hint of existence as the last bit of information melts into endless, true randomness. Or perhaps my writings, along with these binary or molecular representations of limited numbers of the documented context of the language, will be collected by a rudimentary crawler bot written in Python executed on a college kid’s laptop that somehow ended up in a proprietary dataset that a company sold in bulk to nameless small companies and ginormous corporations who trained an untold number of artificial intelligence models on. Wouldn’t that be interesting? The ghost of my somewhat unfiltered thoughts would be embedded in semiconductors, fading out of existence.

All of a sudden, the slightly colder lights of the bingo hall reminded me of a snowy scene of silver covering lands and distant mountains. It might have been the reality, a reality, or from a movie, a memory of a mindless glance at a random anime playing on the monitor in the background, illuminating an avatar of perhaps me, as I thought about how it felt when the numbness slightly washed off me. As the artificial flavor of green crystal grapes and peach, backed with the dusty chocolate cookie crunchiness, exploded on my tongue, I felt a bit of loss and frustration that I could simply not accurately describe the foreign feeling I was experiencing, as colorful and as story-like as the Grand Budapest Hotel (by Wes Anderson; apologies…).

Oh, I guess it never mattered; this entry will most likely be left online silently alone like many of the characters I wrote eons ago, never read twice by anyone, like the overflowing number of items I own, collecting dust in every crevice of storage sealed in the sluggish soup of stagnant air molecules. This is a tiny bit of a slice of all the thoughts I will ever generate, used as an experimental draft in a raggedy mosaic that represents one of my many attempts at a system to host my jumbled thoughts.

Honestly, the amount of choices to make annoys the fucking hell out of me :-( Why is there always complexity? Why are there so many potential ways for me to decease but a very narrow amount of choices to live a happy, honest, and blissful life? When I wake up, I don’t want to feel depressed and gloomy constantly again; I am no longer myself; who am I? Who are you?

I want to have control; I want to be organized; I want everything to be in its place and every aspect of life to run smoothly in perpetuity. Things are too messy while I am too stressed out and paralyzed to do anything to alleviate the problems; thus, it is my newly developed belief that minimalism will bring me happiness. By the way, it is my all-time since-the-beginning-of-my-life-till-forever-after-my-death belief that I am the luckiest person with a very complex and inspiring life; it is also my long-time belief that I am the main character of my life, and I am unsure who you are; might I say, we are all alone in an ocean of loneliness, of isolated, unique, brilliant but completely dark individual consciousnesses separated by invisible, fluid, yet never yielding, unforgiving, and indestructible membranes.

Isn’t it funny how limited languages are at describing a feeling? I truly wonder how a large language model could ever understand a human being if it can never experience the pleasant decoherence when the weed kicks in. I also wonder if there are people who are high like this all the time. Why did they do that? What happened to them? What are they becoming after all these years?

I had been popping snacks into my mouth like crazy for the past several hours, and the rich, greasy, entirely too-sweet salt milk candy aftertaste lingered in my mouth. I have to say I made too many failed attempts at understanding the audiobook playing and aching my ears, and I didn’t like the coldness sobering me up. This blurb got much longer than I was willing to read; hopefully, it was coherent.

Time to face reality again, bye bye :-)