Welcome to Picton

I'll mention that the quality of amateur photoshoots that have been getting submitted to BME/HARD by younger (as in 18 to 35) readers really keeps going up all the time. Thanks to everyone who's having fun with it. I may be totally deluded, but I really think it's a good “sign of the times” that people feel free enough to put this stuff out there. It's not as if we don't all do it.

It's crazy to think about it, but I've been drinking heavily now (on and off) for over 16 years. Because I did a partial grade skip in school, I had friends that were a little older than me, so I was exposed to alcohol a bit earlier than I should have been. At age fifteen I was hooked on vodka — I think that's all I drank until quite recently actually. Not only did I enjoy the effects, but I think I have a bit of a Russian-mystique-fetish, where I fantasize that Russia is this real no-holds-barred place where anything goes and people don't really care if they live or die. Getting photos like the ones below from friends in Russia chopping off fingers after a night of drinking help me maintain that mirage.

The sad truth of the matter is that I think I may have entirely fabricated the “drinking vodka” part in my mind… I actually have no real reason to believe that other than the stereotypes that rule my fantasies.

Getting back to my own life, I'll tell you a story that sort of sums up the small town growing up experience. Keep in mind that I kicked my Korsakoff's syndrome into high gear by my mid teens so this story may be only partially accurate, but I believe this took place as I will tell it. It actually involves several other IAM members, but I'll keep their names out of this entry.

if i am good i could add years to my life
i would rather add some life to my years
life is really what you make it they say
i can't even make my mind up today

My brother was having a big field party on our parents farm, which meant that a couple hundred of his friends would arrive from as far away as two hours drive and gather around a large bonfire to drink themselves silly and screw farm girls under the stars. I was living in Toronto at the time and had a similar drive myself, although I was the passenger in the car, cutting up sheets of acid and wrapping them individually to sell later that night.

Tearing through the small town of Bloomfield, Ontario at well over the speed limit my heart dropped into my stomache as the cop walked up to our window after pulling us over for speeding. Would he notice that I'd just brushed hundreds of hits under the seat? Would he catch a glimpse of the tinfoil and wonder what it was for? “You boys know how fast you were going?”

It wouldn't be the first time that my friend in the driver's seat would talk us out of a long stay in prison, and not long afterwards — without even a ticket issued — we were on our way to the party.

After selling maybe thirty or forty hits to various gino-jock friends of my brother's, an old friend of mine approached me looking to buy I think five hits. He'd already finished off one bottle of whiskey and was well into his second, but I never was the kind of guy that told people to take it easy and still am not. So a few seconds later I was twenty dollars richer and five hits of very high quality acid were starting to be absorbed by his body… It turns out the combination didn't sit well with him though.

Probably due more to the booze than the LSD, he approached some homophobic Markham macho dude and I guess made some move on him that this guy interpreted as “gay” and got himself punched and threatened… My friend, not particularly a fighter (although I knew him from not only “the gifted program” but also seven years of Judo), uncharacteristically escalated the conflict, pulled a pocket knife on the guy, and tried to cut him — my brother and a couple friends quickly grabbed him, carried him toward us, threw him in the back of our car and told us to get lost before he got himself killed…

It sort of sucked because it meant we were going to lose our dealing profits from the night — we'd hoped to sell a few hundred hits — but friends do come first.

Initially we drove to a big graveyard about fifteen minutes away and sat among the stones hoping he'd relax, but the combination of alcohol and acid wasn't sitting well with him. “I need to see Leah,” he told us. Leah had been my girlfriend throughout highschool, and I think I was still dating her when this story took place, but my drugged friend had also dated her for a while (it was a small town so most interesting people had hooked up in one way or another).

She still lived with her parents, but it was only about eleven at night so we drove there and got her. My friend was really a slurred mess at this point. We dropped the two of them off at the playground of a nearby elementary school and my dealer friend and I went for a moonlight walk to let them talk, hoping she could calm him down. It turns out that he tried to molest and rape her the whole time we were gone, but he was so immobilized by the various substances that she was at no real risk.

I don't really remember what happened over the rest of the night, although I do remember my brother stumbling out of his tent at the field party after a rendezvous with who knows how many girls, and shouting at the top of his lungs, “MY DICK FEELS SO GOOD!”

I know, none of that was a particularly interesting story, but welcome to life in a small town.

Wow Shannon, that's really annoying! What is it, 1997 on Geocities? Retroweb is NOT cool!

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