I’m aware this may be trite, specially coming from me; not a situation you wouldn’t ever imagine, not impossible, but still… A sense of duty… of just leaving a record of this. I feel I must express this in the most objective way I can despite my limitations using the English language —which is not my natural language—, while hiding this information from the people I know so I don’t make them worried or upset without a real cause: there’s nothing these people can do. It’s just a question of time before I leave this brainwave, it’s ok.

I’m suddenly having a drug-addict world-view in which I abandon myself to [something], being a recluse, lights turned off, etc. But I gladly retain a sense of duty: I’m still pragmatic, sincere and using the literal meaning of words and symbols. My nervous system: blackened, some parts of it seem like made of ashes, God wouldn’t want it, some of that harm was, maybe, self inflicted from years of —not drug abuse nor physical exhaustion, not too much alcohol— just living in a state of confusion, not figuring a way out of this current into a more healthy one. I’m feeling a feverish state of mind, a sickness of the nervous system, of the brain, confusion, reality doesn’t feel real, lack of discernment, no motivation, constant typos (but I correct them right away), dreams —this is the main problem, I feel— with leitmotifs that repeat again and again or translate into different forms with the same essence. I’m living like in those dreams; it’s hard to focus on one thing and finish it, my brain focuses on one thing and then another. I dreamed I was juggling some balls —each ball was a task— and I couldn’t focus on the balls or make a sequence with them. I tried to focus on the task “juggling” but it didn’t work.

The purpose of this is to just finish a thought, whatever it is; just type it.

A nasty thing is: I feel I’m faking everything. I feel ashamed, like I’m still a teenager; exaggerating. Something tells me “it’s not that hard, you just have to man the fuck up” and it’s right, it’s just a question of time before I get some non-tiresome dreams. What is causing this? This is important. I don’t know if it’s something from the inside or something that came from the outside.

In this uncertainty the only useful thing is to be aware of the facts and avoid any judgment or interpretation. The really objective things I wrote are the symptoms and the dream listed above. In the future I’ll figure out what happened.


My head is killing me.


Somebody said
something I had said already
but it sounded
as if he had said it first.

Shine on, tiny little 5th dimensional being.

He’s fucked in the head lol.

What the fuck is going on in my head,
with the synchronicity all fucked up
and not knowing —not only what to say,
but what am I perceiving?

What is happening to me
when I become an echo of someone
and I’m echoing myself in the rest?
What trip am I on?

The trip of being me.
The bad trip triggered when I start thinking
"it’s going to be like this forever
and worse: it has always been this way.”

So what is up in this right moment
in which I’m useless, an unfamiliar face,
a pile of common sense
with nothing new to say?

I could bear this moment if only,
and only, you say you’ll take my stuff,
say you made it and sell it. Digest me.
It’s not a lot but it’s what I made.

I’ve been consuming natural resources
for almost 30 years. I’ve eaten so many
oranges and chickens. Do you know
how much water takes to breed a chicken?

Four thousand liters each one.
So it’s not fair towards the world
to just fuck off and die;
I have to leave something behind me.

"A bullet, a bullet, a bullet…"

I heard the playful babbling of a kid “blublublublublub…”, it was like an onomatopoeia for drops of shampoo falling.

It went on for many minutes without pausing.

The voice of a woman came alive and said “A bullet, a bullet, a bullet, a bullet…”. It suddenly attained autonomy and said “EVIL IS…” with violence. It died out instantly. It startled me. The voice had said something about us as species; evil does something to us, has something to do with us. Such a dull platitude; a newborn voice trying to speak its mind the only way it could.

So I heard a scream just now. Everything overflows with terror. It was just some kid playing.

So I heard the sound of the wind sweeping the street as if everything were made of dust.

20 ways I’m a piece of shit


  1. i hate my face and i think i should kill myself
  2. i’m dumb as fuck and my dick looks like a turd
  3. i hope a homeless person would strangle me
  4. i scream profanities at little children
  5. i’m to shy to go to the zoo
  6. i just crapped my pants
  7. i just had anal sex with a horse and i got a rectal injury
  8. i am thinking of cutting off my dick
  9. my only friends and family are a bunch of turds in a shoe box
  10. i never learned how to masturbate like a normal person
  11. my voice is high pitched and my balls smell like farts
  12. i spend all my money in sesame seeds
  13. the food i kook tastes literally like vomit
  14. i’m an overall failure and i deserve to be chemically castrated
  15. i stick chunks of fresh watermelon up my ass
  16. i hate my life and i want to be anally fisted
  17. my both legs are crippled and i have galucoma
  18. i smear my balls with sour cream mayo and let my cat lick it
  19. i have no friends because i smell of onion rings
  20. I can’t stop farting, it started as an ‘in my head’ thing and turned physical. I tried changing my diet and everything for the last few months, but nothing is working so I’m killing myself in july.

Please reblog.

My face last night

Last night the noise was discernible and I heard a deep voice saying “we are dying” and “we are disintegrating”.

I thought I was going insane. I thought my life was a mistake. I thought my identity was fake. I thought I wasn’t me. I wanted to run to a place where nobody knew me. I was sleeping on the floor.

In a big room with a table and a light bulb I was sitting in front of someone and staring at him dead in the eye. I was repeating a gesture and some words, over and over again, like a machine. My face was progressively distorting.

He got nervous and said “what are you doing?”

I said “what am I doing?”. I chuckled and I said “I don’t even know what I am”.

My face was the hairless, wet, shiny and dead snout of a rat.


Have you suffered through the infinite horror of a “bad trip” psychedelic drug experience? Endured unending psychic agony while trapped forever in the abyss of acid hallucinations? Been besieged by rapacious soul-mutilation demons during a magic mushroom death trip? Ugly salvia freakout? Demented DMT hell-plunge? Brain-frying out-of-body ketamine terror?

The time has come to put it in writing, tortured psychonaut.

Short accounts of nightmarish psychedelic drug experiences are being sought for BAD TRIP, a one-shot zine that will be published in April 2014 by Furtive Labors. Submission guidelines can be found here.

Follow this blog of mine too guys. It’s not hysterical, I promise.