A long strange trip

Many years ago, when I was young and carefree and living in Arizona, Lancelot and I decided to go to a Phish concert. To make the experience more jam band appropriate, we did shrooms. Now, I'd never done them before, so I trusted my druggie boyfriend to know the right dosage, etc. Hah! We decided to take the shrooms before we got to the concert, to give them time to kick in. First tragic mistake. The drive to the venue is about an hour, and they kicked in in TRAFFIC! Holy lord above, no. AND! We had to stop at the ATM to get cash. Imagine how long that took, will you? Buttons! Bleeping! Digital screen! *sigh* We finally got to the venue, we parked and made our way to the gates. In the weird world that is drugs and Phish concerts, Lancelot ran into someone from our hometown, on the other side of the country. Then he proceeded to puke in the bushes. Lovely! And I? Am experiencing a complete emotional split. Gypsy is inside my head somewhere, but she can't communicate and she can't get out. Meanwhile, everyone has turned into an alien. I am completely, 100%, totally, entirely sure that the people around us are all from another planet. As we stand in line at the will-call, I whisper this to Lancelot (because by this time, all I can do is whisper). "They're.... aliens." And he says, "I know, babe. I know." We get into the venue and find a spot on the grass, and Lancelot has to go puke. Again. Lovely! I'm stuck with all the aliens! And whispering. He gets back from the bathroom an eon later after he'd ralphed on some guy's shoe and we decide, screw this, we can't handle all the aliens, we're leaving. The concert hasn't even started yet. Can you say freak out? I can. A lot. I might not have mentioned this, but I don't like to be out of control. I really don't like it. Weed, alcohol, X... fine. All things I can control myself while under the influence. But this? A whole other thing where Gypsy is still knocking at the door of the attic of my mind trying to get out. I wanted to stay in the parking lot of the show, where it was quiet(er) and we could still hear the music, but not have to deal with the aliens. Right. Lancelot decides we have to leave. Now. I won't go into how wrong, wrong, wrong it was of us to drive ANYWHERE. God, we were stupid. But drive we did. To a convenience store, because I was freaking right the fuck out and made him stop the car. I wandered around the store talking to myself, trying to communicate with people but basically staring at them in mute anxiety while Lancelot tried to get me in the car. Tried, but failed. Until he picked me up bodily and shoved me in the backseat. And took off. With convenience store patrons, I'm sure, thinking he'd kidnapped me. We end up at another convenience store with Lancelot begging me to get in the car and drive to Vegas with him where we'll get hitched because he's the pilot and I'm his co-pilot and he wants me to be his co-pilot for life, baby, let's GO! But I've just had enough and, upright druggie citizen that I am, decide to call the cops on myself. I was convinced that Gypsy was never coming back. Lancelot, no doubt thinking this crazy woman is going to get us in some serious trouble, starts walking home. Home is an hour away. And somehow, he's lost his shoes. The convenience store clerk calls the fire department for me, and they send a truck out to check on me. By the time they get there, I'm coming down and really, really, reallly embarrased. And they are HOT. I mean fireman hot. So hot. But they're nice, and they kind of laugh at me as there are lots of Phishies out tonight, and they go get my car (which is, somehow, on the other side of the street with the alarm going off). One of the firemen tells me, with a knowing and intent look, that he put my sunglasses in my center console. Yeah, the stash was in the console! D'oh. They get me a cab ride home, but by this time, I'm completely sober and worried about Lancelot. I have no idea where he is, shoeless, in a bad part of town. When the cab pulls up to our apartment, he's getting out of another cab in front of me. He, too, is completely sober, but his feet are torn and blistered. He'd walked something like 20 blocks before being able to hail a cab. We went inside, hunkered down in the bed, screwed, laughed at ourselves, and cried. I've never tripped again.