OH NO KETAMINE, reports the Sheffield Star today, in desperate earnest.
I am endearingly naive about everybody's favourite animal tranquiliser - a vegetarian friend of mine once confided over a sneaky plate of swordfish that after dropping out of existence at a party, re materialising two hours later to discover her breasts being molested, it probably ought just be for horses.
I once went to a party at her house that was so evidently drug-fuelled (by which I mean, I couldn't stand the music) that after staggering home in a cloud of sweet, green mist I tried to note down some of my observations. Reading back the following morning, I realised there was no way I could convey the frenzy and mania throbbing through their torn-carpet living room, no way I could articulate the foul taste of watching a girl repeatedly insist to a stranger that she had a boyfriend.
If I wasn't so naive, I presumably could, but there's something insincere about being an experience junkie for the sake of accurate description. And besides, ketamine kills almost two people a year! Not worth the risk, evidently.
No comments:
Post a Comment