My flirtation with patriotism ended, however, once the drugs began kicking in, all at once. I was at a party and everyone was soused, running around, sparklers flailing, shooting bottle rockets, and doing all the things drunk people do on America's birthday. The only other person as stone-cold f-u-c-k-e-d as I was my friend Robb, the source of the acid (and, as an aside, the source of my education in Herve Villechaize's porn career). That summer was wild. We were gonna do whatever we wanted. We were going to take acid and look at fireworks, because we were American, goddammit.
Here's where it goes wrong (aside from my barely being able to walk): my crazy ex-boyfriend got wind that night about my imminent move to another city, something he felt he had the right to discourage since we'd been half-assed freaking it post-breakup. He was later diagnosed with an actual emotional disorder in which he wanted to marry every woman he dated; that night, this manifested itself in a drunken rage, directed at my tripping ass. He screamed, "I can't believe you're leaving me!" In my LSD-altered world, I heard "I cccclll rjjryyyekkkei!!!" It was total unreality. What was reality was the small battalion of objects he chose to hurl at me in his anger. The deck of cards, flashing past my face in a hurricane of 52 whooshing tracers? Real. The beer cans shooting from his hands like fireballs of liquid silver? Real. The kitchen chair, slamming into the linoleum with the force of a giant meteor? Very. Fucking. Real.
The Crash Worship show I attended upon escaping my domestic nightmare? I ain't even gonna go there.
It has come to my attention that LSD is once again becoming de rigueur among the designer-drug-taker set, much like crack cocaine was six months ago. While it may be tempting to imbibe such a strong, chemical hallucinogen on a holiday so rife with pretty explosions in the sky, take this as a warning from someone who gave up drugs on July 4, 1996: before you do anything rash, think about the rash thing you're about to do.