DOSE:	7.2 g	oral	Morning Glory	(ground / crushed)
	50 mg	oral	Diphenhydramine	(pill / tablet)

BODY WEIGHT:

151 lb

My parental figures were out of state for several days, so I was left in solitude in a town I had just moved to one month prior. Typical scenario, I was bored. Of my few close acquaintences, none lived within a two-hour drive. I was haunting a related message board when I was struck with a spontaneous solution to my self-induced exhile... I would trip-face.

I knew immediately that I would have to resort to Morning Glory seeds. It isn't practical to venture into the population asking random individuals for illegal narcotics, and the only psychedelic I had consumed since arriving into this obscure existence was a bowl of pot I had shared with an inebriated female who was trying to lure me to her place of residence to do unspeakable deeds to my morality. So, theoretically, I could have called her to investigate the availability of strong hallucinogenics. But, alas, I had discarded her phone number at the first waste receptacle I passed.

Morning Glory was going to be my lady divine this evening. Though I had sampled Hawaiian Baby Woodrose in the past, I was not willing to allow my desire to hallucinate linger for the 6-8 days necessary for shipping.
I did vacillate to make the excursion to the local grocery market, since I had vowed that if I ever “Rode the Snake” (to quote the parlance of popular entheogen vernacular), I would use LSD, for I feared putting any wear on my already weakened digestive system. It may be wise to note I suffer from ulcerative colitis. This hesitation only lasted for the duration of the period I wasted looking for my ever-elusive car keys.

The total for my purchases was $12.48, which included four 1.8 gram packages of Morning Glory Seeds, 12 tablets of Dramamine, and a “six pack” of Schweppes Ginger Ale. In the parking lot I washed one 50 mg Dramamine tablet with 1 can of Ginger Ale, then piloted my vehicle back to my home. Home is a two-story structure that rests in the heart of upper-middle class suburbia (a cookie cutter establishment I am aware some “lesser advantaged” individuals are ignorant enough to envy).

Upon arriving at my home, I cleansed the fungicide from the seeds utilizing coffee filters, dish detergent, and a Corning-Ware dish. I did not have a coffee-grinder, nor a pepper mill, so I was obliged to use a ten-pound dumbbell to pulverize 7.2 grams of the black, tear-shaped LSA vessels. I then poured myself another glass of Ginger Ale and spooned the night’s entertainment into the amber toned beverage, thus creating a cocktail worthy of Henry Fonda’s palate. Ginger Ale, I presumed, would be a satisfactory flavor cloak for the acrid Morning Glory particles. It was.

Immediately after descending my esophageal tissue, strife broke out in my gastric cavity between the spotted cocktail and the white albacore I had consumed a few hours prior. As was the case later in the trip, as well as during that moment, I felt nauseous, but I never regurgitated any of the pepsin pageant attendees. Hitherto, I had been fairly excited about the trip, but now I found myself apprehensive. I considered going to the water closet and using my index finger to initiate an evacuation procedure, but never one to succumb to defeatist impulses, I decided de faire une promenade would be much more enjoyable.

After donning my favorite brown corduroy jacket, I ventured down the sidewalk that ran parallel to the road in front of my house. Upon reaching a vertex between a rocky construction route and the terrace that encircled ma maison, I veered down the rocky way without any inclination as to where the path resulted. After passing the delicate white primrose, the lush purple thistle, and the sun-yellow glow of the daffodils, I thanked myself for opting to stray from the monotony of paved roadways. Though the course was littered with millions of balance offending rocks and other impediments, I found the environment brought improved my disposition greatly. Had anyone passed me on that stretch, it is certain they would have been treated to the friendliest of salutations accompanied by an irrepressible chuckle. It was that moment I realized I was ascending the mountains of madness that I have come to adore. It had been forty-five minutes since I had ingested the seeds, and I was well aware that it was going to be another three hours until I found myself atop the peak of drug-induced dementia.

Suddenly, my path elbowed a perverse monument of capitalism. To my starboard was a large black and green structure, who’s glass face deceived any passerby into thinking they could observe what went on inside. Though I was well aware of its existence before, I felt it perverse that my path of natural detachment was invaded by this monstrosity of industry. Though one may assert fiber optics is the future, and a key player in the transmission of this very text, I still felt nauseated by its presence (not to mention the 200 or so seeds settling in my stomach). I had seen enough, it was time to go home.

My appendages felt colder than they should have been. I glanced at my right hand and observed an azure-violet hue decorating the crest of my now tense and constricted knuckles. Although a chill glided up my spine I knew not to fret, for I had tangled with LSA before, and I was well aware that it was, in fact, a vasoconstrictor. Regardless, I quickened my pace and sashayed through my front door a half an hour later. I was an hour and a half into the trip.

I retrieved another Ginger Ale from the refrigerator and seated myself in front of the iridescent glow of the zombie tube. Gripping the remote control with frenzied eagerness, I found myself unable to remain intrigued by the personalities (Dave Chappelle was one I remember seeing). For some reason, I found the television to be annoying. Plus, I noticed that its usually tolerable high-pitched ring unbearable, and the flickering lamp went dark.

At that moment I felt un-American. Television disgusted me, I did not wish to patron the local bar scene, I was not hungry (in fact, quite the opposite), and I had no desire to use any of the numerous electronics in my house, including the central air. I felt dejected, lonely, bored, and my mind was moving at a rate too fast for any information superhighway. I knew that my decision to trip that night was a mistake, so I went to my chambers with the intent of closing my eyes and meditating until I fell asleep.

I have tripped at least twelve times in my life and I have never experienced the luxury of “visuals”, but I am fortunate enough to have been entertained by CEV’s, or, Closed Eye Visuals, as was the case that evening. The nausea was subsiding slightly, but the tension still remained. My heart was drumming a furious beat and, though I felt relaxed, I was unable to get my leg to stop trembling. Projected on the back of my eyelids were shades of tones, shapes, and colors that even the most advanced Photoshop techniques could not emulate. The one recurring visual was a rainbow studded “X” with a cellophane ribbon that flared many various colors.

Suddenly, something in my endocrine system flared, and I found myself throbbing with the most intense warmth; a heat that tickled every inch of my flesh, both surface and interior. I would not use the misnomer of orgasm, since it was something ineffable and unprecedented for me. I was unable to control myself. I was writhing on the bed, caressing, licking, nibbling, pinching, and squeezing every section of my body without any sort of mental process guiding me. Everything felt electric to the touch. One may find it intriguing to note that I did not experience erection, orgasm, ejaculation, or any of the usual processes that occur during sexual arousal. In fact, I don’t recall any desire to stimulate my genitals or other obvious erogenous zones. Instead, the meat of the shoulder, the hips, the neck, and the thigh were the favored locations.

After an hour-long submission into the throws of sensuality, I found myself fatigued and unable to remain awake. Aye, but here’s the rub. My eyes were unable to remain open, but I was unable to enter the initial stages of sleep. It was as if my body was still very much alert and eager to perform tasks, but my brain was lodged in the hypnagogic state. This conflict remained for two hours, and I found myself on the verge of going mad. At some point around that time, I finally fell asleep and woke with the intention to post this experience on erowid.

In a world of Reader’s Digest anecdotes, thirty-minute tales, and tombstone etchings, it is often expected that one be able to summarize even the most trying of tribulations and glowing of experiences. My summary doesn’t even begin to offer a suitable introduction into what one encounters in the world of serotonin agonists.

Exp Year: 2004	ExpID: 34770
Gender: Male
Age at time of experience: Not Given
Published: Dec 18, 2006	Views: 9,648
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Morning Glory (38) : Sex Discussion (14), General (1), Alone (16)