Dinner and a Movie, Minus the Dinner but Breakfast Instead, and No Movie

This is a guest post by Vicvelcro, a member of the eBay Suspension & PayPal Limited Forums, Enjoy.

It was Sunday morning, New Years Day, 1995.  I just survived a big party at my house on Saturday night, and was living on about three hours of sleep, but doing pretty well anyway.  There were 9 people who stayed the night and helped clean up the next morning.   I cooked breakfast for everyone, and we were all relaxing and chatting.  One of the people that stayed was Jerry.  The rest of the people were long time friends, the cream of my crop.

Jerry was a guy I met 3 months previously.  He was extremely good looking, lived a playboy’s lifestyle, a little arrogant, suave, sometimes very sweet, and had a background that was entirely mysterious.  We had spent a lot of time talking, getting to know each other and just basically hanging out over the last three months. I barely knew him.

After cleaning up, we all prepared to go to see the advance preview of “Pulp Fiction.”  Jerry mentioned he was hoping I would go along.  And smoke a joint with him before the movie.  He had mentioned before that he had it, which piqued my interest.  Jerry was an excessive social drinker, not a user.  The funny thing is, I don’t really smoke pot much.  I had smoked pot since I was 19, but in the past 5 years, I probably only smoked it 7 or 8 times.  For some reason I felt this kind of self induced peer pressure to do it.  Plus, it sounded like a funny way to see that particular movie, so I went along.

We agreed to meet everyone else at the theater, via separate limousine.  Jerry and I were left at my house alone.  After he made up my mind, I rushed to get ready as he waited in our limo. We then rushed over to his apartment, where he got ready.

As he was putting his face on, he handed me the joint saying, “It’s really top-shelf and very wicked.  Go easy, maybe half a drag to start.”

The first puff was smooth.  Like a baby’s breath.  So I took 2 or 3 more good healthy tokes off the joint, and put it out.

Jerry again mentioned this was very potent stuff and he didn’t want to smoke it till we got to the theater, because he didn’t like to ride in that condition.

The pot hit me right away.  I instantly felt high,  something that never happened before.  Usually it took 5 or 10 minutes for it to begin creeping in.  I told Jerry how high I was.


He said “Give it about 10 minutes, you’ll forget who you are.  By the way, I gotta have more cowbell!”

(Um, what?)

(Nevermind.)

We got in the car.  He popped in this tape of music he had been working on.  He has a program on his PC that allows him to take music and sound samples, and mix them together.  He was making a couple of dance songs that weren’t too bad.  When we were in his apartment, he kept rewinding it and replaying it over and over again to try to get more ideas for it.  When we were in the car, he cranked it up, then I sat back and totally relaxed.

The music was blaring; I couldn’t move.  I was totally paralyzed.  At first I was just quiet and relaxed, then about half way to the theater I realized this drug was hitting me differently than anything I ever smoked before.  My mouth was draining dry, and had a strange taste I never experienced before.  My thoughts ran wild through my head, when suddenly I figured it out:

(I was going to die today.)

Jerry’s plot to kill me was coming true as I breathed my final breaths.  I was now living a true-life “Pulp Fiction.”

It was all so clear to me now.  He worked out my vulnerabilities, then plotted to drug and kill me.

I sat in the car, listening to the loud music blare over and over.  I looked at Jerry.  He had a contented smile on his face, as if his plot had surely come true.  He suggested to me a while ago that he was some sort of an artist. And now he pulled off his ultimate piece.

(He was a con artist.)

I convinced myself of all this and more.

Included in this plot was putting something more than maryjane in that joint.  Also, I remembered he had an extremely large sum of cash that was supposedly his rent.  Lots of rent. People put that kind of stuff in the bank, not on their microwave.

But this all fit perfectly into his plot.  Now he could skip town and pay cash for everything; it was all so pat.  And with the low profile he generally kept, tracking him down afterward would be virtually impossible.  All of these facts and more fed my paranoia.

I continued to sit quietly and keep my senses, hoping I might get myself out of the mess I was in.  I tried to grab a feel of where we were, and if we were actually going to the theater or not.

At first I thought we would go to a vacant lot were he could dispose of my body, but it did appear we were indeed going to the theater.  This confused me a bit, as it didn’t really fit into his murder plot.  I had no idea of what he really had planned, but figured if he didn’t smoke that joint, he really was going to try to kill me.

He told the driver to put the car on Thompson Street, and then started to get out.

I said to him “Hey, you gonna hit that?”

He said “Oh.  Um.  Yeah.”  He opened his cigarette case, drew the doobie out, and started to light it up.

I grabbed it from his hand.  At this point, I KNEW there was something more than marijuana involved.  I figured he had switched the joint I smoked with an unlaced spliff for himself.

I said to him “Jerry, is there something else in this joint other than pot?  I feel totally different than I’ve ever felt before.  I’m freaking out.  What is going on?”

“No! No! I mean…” he said.  “I would never do anything like that,” he finished.

He told me over and over he hadn’t added anything.  Such a soft soothing tone oozed from the hole he keeps parked just above his chin. But at this point I was so deep into my paranoid state, the truth would never penetrate it.

He asked me what I wanted to do.  I told him I wanted him to take me to the theater, collect my friends, and take me home.  He told me I was being over-dramatic, paranoid, and he would not take me into the theater in such a state.  “Bad!  Bad idea.”

“Do you want me to just take you home?  Yeah, you want to go home and you want me to take you.  I should get you home. home. home.”

“No!  Of course not!” I thought silently to myself.

THIS was his plot.  To make me think I was going to the theater. Then to take me home, kill me and rob my house.

I told him if he would not take me into the theater, I would go in by myself.  He tried to convince me not to do this and to let him take me home, then he sat there as I grabbed my coat and purse and got out of the car.  I was still talking to him while I was standing outside of the car, trying to convince him to go with me.  I didn’t think I could make it there myself, and if I got him into the theater, I could reveal his plans to my friends.

My mouth had become very dry, and felt as if it were swelling shut.  I told him to just take me into the theater, so I could get a drink of water.  I tried to calm myself down so he didn’t think I was too far out of my wig, and would just take me into the theater.  But he remained in the car.  I shut the door, and starting walking away.  My attempt at subterfuge had failed miserably.

I was very disoriented when I got out of the car.  I starting walking the wrong way, then tried to calm myself down enough to make the theater.  I realized I was on Thompson St., and I needed to start heading to Liberty, so I did.

I crossed the street, and looked back at the limo, which was still parked at the meter.  I couldn’t figure out why he was still sitting there.  If he had indeed tried to kill me, why didn’t he try to flee?  Even though his devious plot didn’t work, he could still get into a lot of trouble for lacing a joint couldn’t he?

He opened the door, got out, closed it, leaned against it, crossed his ankles, lit a cigarette, inhaled, exhaled, and watched the smoke wander away all by itself. The smoke looked so lonely.

I thought I heard him ask the smoke if it wanted him to take it home.

Yet again, I figured it out.  He was timing how long the drug would take to hit me.  I was feeling short of breath, my mouth was swelling shut, my vision was becoming tunneled, and I was freezing cold.  He wasn’t going to murder me by physical violence, which I had first envisioned, but I was going to die of this drug that was now in my body.  I was totally convinced of this.

I looked back again, he was still there.  I knew he was laughing and gauging when I might collapse.  Smoking, just to have something to do until such time as I should eventually succumb.

I started to run, but then I stopped.  I realized I was going to die before I got to the theater, so it was probably a good idea if I asked someone to help me.

A man and woman out walking their dog were crossing the street at the corner.  I stopped them and asked them to help me.  I told them I smoked a joint, and it had something in it other than marijuana.

I turned around; Jerry was still there.  Smoking.  Asking the smoke if it really didn’t want a ride home with the cowbell.

I tried pointing to the car, telling them he was at the limo, and he had poisoned me with something.  I also asked them to call 911 because I thought I was dying.  I told them all of my symptoms, and I was having trouble doing so.  I tried rushing them to the phone, kept pointing to Jerry in the car, and tried to continue telling my story.

They kept asking the same questions over and over, as if they didn’t understand me.  Why didn’t they comprehend?  I was so crystal clear in my own head, but they didn’t understand.

As we approached the corner of Thompson and Liberty, I was hysterical.  I kept pointing to the car, telling them to get the license plate number.

They didn’t see a limousine, a man, a cigarette, or apparently any cowbell; they didn’t know what I was talking about.  They asked me what side of the street it was on.  I tried counting spaces to tell them it was sitting there, in the third slot on the right. Monty Python’s Holy Hand Grenade crept into my brain. “Five… is right out”

I couldn’t think of the words ‘Parking Meter.’  I tried to play charades to show them what one was, then I thought of the words.  “Marking Peter!” I blurted.

Again, I was yelling for someone to call 911.  I was dying.

Jerry was back in the car, still sitting there, behind smoked glass.  Why was he still sitting there?  He was surely laughing his ass off at me, not only was I going to die, but I was making a huge scene – and a big fool of myself – in the mean time.

The car turned out and started to slowly pull away.  I was hysterically jumping up and down pointing to it, yelling that 911 must be called, and dying, all at the same time.

Why did he pull away so slowly?  Why didn’t he peel out to get away fast?  What plan was he coming up with next?

Or had he foreseen this and played me the entire time?  I couldn’t believe I was going to die this way.

I had never been particularly afraid of death, but was more upset about meeting it in such an undignified way.  Everyone would read about this in the paper, how this 31 year old successful business woman, trying to act cool, had smoked a joint and died for it.

My family would be devastated.  All the worry over my two brothers who have drug problems, and here I go tits-up for smoking some herb.  I didn’t want it to be like this!

People were not moving fast enough for me, they still had not called 911.  There was quite a crowd gathering around, but there were four people who stopped to help me.  They leaned me up against the wall, and the man I had initially stopped, started to call 911.

That phone didn’t work.  Then he tried the one next to it.  I heard him on the phone calling 911, and then some other people who stopped to help me started talking to me.  I kept offering my id in my purse so they wouldn’t think I was some sort of lunatic, but in fact really was in trouble; no one took it.

I saw the State Theater from there, thinking I was so close, and if I could have only made it in there to get my friends, I wouldn’t be in this mess.

One of the women here was a physician.  She tried calming me down, taking my pulse, checking my pupils, telling me to track her finger with my eyes and generally telling me I was going to be OK.  I didn’t believe her, of course. And they were doing nothing for my thirst or the fact that I was freezing.

Another woman, named Laura, who was the other person I initially stopped, helped me put my coat on and she zipped it up for me, then offered me her own hat, to keep warm.

I was begging for water, over and over.  Not only was my mouth swelling shut, but I figured drinking water would help the drug out of my system.  No one would get me a drink of water!  I was dying!  Why wouldn’t anyone get me a drink of water?  My mouth was swelling shut more and more, and soon I wouldn’t be able to talk, I really wanted some water.

The ramifications of this little episode raced in my head like bumper cars.  I was going to be on TV, everyone would know I was into drugs, and my life would be ruined.  I started to panic again.  The woman physician tried calming me down.

“Please get me some water”, I asked. “I’m dying.”

All of the people there asked me my name, and tried talking to me to keep me calm.  They asked me over and over again what happened, and tried to calm me as I told the story.

They asked me if I knew what day it was, and I said “January 1st, 1994, great way to start the New Year, eh?”  They all smiled.  Then I said “Sometimes I can be funny, even when I’m stoned.”  They laughed.

Then I heard the sirens.  One of the women smiled cheerfully and said “Oh, those must be for you.”

“At last!” I thought, “Finally they will take me to the hospital, and pump this drug out of me.”

Next thing I know, a fire truck, a police car, and an ambulance show up.  I continued begging for a drink of water, and finally one of the women who stopped to help me grabbed me a hand full of snow.  I looked it over to see if it was yellow.  Then I ate it.

The people from the fire truck got out and asked the same questions over and over.

Why couldn’t these people just share the information instead of bugging me, while not getting me right to the hospital?

The woman from the fire truck, who seemed totally disgusted with the whole situation, asked me who I was, what day it was, who was the president, etc.

I answered all of the questions.  I offered my id again, but she didn’t take it.

After she realized they were not really needed, the fire truck left.

Next was the police.  I couldn’t believe I had to tell the police I smoked pot.  Maybe I wouldn’t die, but now I was going to end up in jail and I would still have a lot of explaining to do at work, to family, friends.  And my life was ruined.

I couldn’t believe that two tokes from a joint could do this.

The police officer seemed slightly amused by the whole thing.  I was pissed he was not writing down more information, like who was the guy that gave me the pot, what’s on second, where do you know him from, etc., so he could go arrest him for trying to kill me.

I never said to anyone though, that he tried to kill me; just that he put something in the pot.  I don’t think I even mentioned his name, just that a friend had done this to me.

Most of my thoughts never made it to my lips.  They moved much too fast for me to try expressing them orally.  I would forget what question was asked or what the point was that I was trying to make, before my mouth could catch up with my brain.  Also, I had this feeling everyone knew what I was thinking, so it wasn’t necessary for me to have to say every single thing.

The police officer asked me the whole story again(!) in detail.  How much I smoked.  What time I smoked it.  How long I had known this friend.  Who I was.   Where I lived.  Etc, ad nauseum.

He told me it must have been some pretty good shit.  He might have been trying to lighten me up with a joke.  I just thought “Yeah right, and now I’m gonna die because of it! And it really didn’t bring the room together all that well.”

I assured everyone present that I would never be smoking pot again if I survived this, because this was the scariest thing ever to have happened to me.

The police officer left.

Why didn’t he ask more people questions?  Why did he take this so lightly?  Was I in some candid camera skit from hell and everyone just trying to see how I’d react if I felt like I was dying and no one gave a crap?!

Next were the paramedics.  The whole time the fire truck people and the police officer were talking to me, the woman physician was looking into my eyes with a pen light, and generally checking me out with the assistance of the paramedics.  I overheard her saying I was going to be fine.

“You don’t know what the hell you are doing!” I thought, “I’m dying, and you are telling all these people I am fine.  Is this some kind of sick joke?”

The paramedics asked me more questions, then told me they thought I was going to be OK.  They informed me they could take me to the hospital if I thought it was necessary, but didn’t seem to think I needed to go.  I told them I didn’t want to waste anyone’s time, but I was concerned what was in my body, so I didn’t really know what to do.

After much deliberation, they finally asked me to step into the ambulance to talk it out.

I looked at all the people who helped me, asked them their names, told them I wanted to do something for them for helping me, but they divulged no more information than their first names, and smiled.  I told them over and over how grateful I was, gave Laura’s hat back to her, and then stepped into the paramedic truck.

I was freezing, I was thirsty, and I was still totally stoned.

The two paramedics, one man and one woman, began asking me questions.  The same inane questions everyone else had been asking me.

They wouldn’t give me any damned water either.  They said they don’t have water in their ambulance.

Why was this all being taken so lightly?

The young man in the ambulance had a calming effect on me.  He asked me a ton of questions; the same questions, of course.  Then he explained to me that, since I knew who I was, where I was, what day it was, and I was no apparent harm to myself, they could either leave me there, or take me to the hospital. The choice was mine.

I really didn’t want to do either.  What I wanted them to do was take me to the theater, get me to my friends so they could take me home and let this ordeal be over.

They told me they couldn’t really shuttle me around.

All I wanted to do was have them take me 1 block.  Why wouldn’t they do that?

What if what was in me really was bad?

I kept asking the man what he thought I had taken.  He said he couldn’t tell.  I  asked him if he thought I should go to the hospital to be checked.  He said he couldn’t tell me that either.

Time was moving so slow, and my thoughts were moving so fast.  The episode I was in was not real, it was moving too slowly to be real, and the people trying to help me were not doing things quickly enough or efficiently enough.  They seemed to take the whole thing lightly, and move slow – just to upset me.

What was this?  A joke?  Weren’t these people supposed to help me? They seemed to have the attitude there was nothing wrong with me; all this when I was dying! Some joke… ha freakin’ ha.

Finally, I told him to take me to the hospital.

On the way there, I couldn’t figure out why they didn’t put the sirens on.

(You’re not really taking me to the hospital, are you?)

I tried to pay attention to where we were going, but kept getting confused.  The man continued to ask me questions, and write everything down, and kept telling me I was going to be OK.

I would tell him everything I was feeling.  My heart and spine started to feel warm and tingly; I said so.  I was feeling VERY paranoid, and I told him that too.  He would say “Thanks for the vital sign update, you’re going to be OK,” and I’d just sit contentedly until the next feeling came along that I could tell him.

After what seemed like eternity, we finally made it to the hospital.  We walked into the emergency room.  Why they didn’t put me in a wheel chair or stretcher, I’ll never know.  Then I sat down in a little curtained off area waiting to be helped.

The ambulance man stayed with me the whole time, which seemed to take forever.  I asked him for water over and over again.  He told me he would see what he could do.  He left me waiting for either him or a nurse to return.

Finally, a nurse came to take my blood pressure and temperature.  The ambulance man, who had returned with no water, briefed the nurse on the situation.

FINALLY, I didn’t have to answer any of her questions.  I kept asking over and over if they could tell what was in me, but they didn’t really seem to care.  They said they couldn’t tell from a blood test.

“Oh fine!” I thought. “Here I’m going to die, because you say you can’t test my blood!”

Next I had to register, so the ambulance man took me over to that area.  I asked him for water again.  This time when he returned, he had water!  We waited for someone to help us.  After a while a lady came and sat behind the registration desk.  He handed the information he had been writing down in the ambulance to the lady behind the computer.  She read it, then asked me the same questions everyone else asked, and that were on the form that the ambulance man had filled out.

I looked up at the clock… It was only 2:20pm.  An hour from when I first took the hit.

I panicked.  I couldn’t believe it was only 1 hour; it seemed more like 6 or 7.

She continued to ask me the same questions.  I was furious at this point, and then I figured out what was really happening to me.

I was already dead, and I was in hell, and my hell would be that I would have to answer inane questions for the rest of eternity, and not get mad.  Also part of my hell was that I was uncomfortable.  I was thirsty, cold, my jeans were hiking up my butt, and I was on my period.  I was going to be this way for the rest of forever!

Damn Jerry, that zircon-encrusted gold-plated bastard-sonofa…!

I tried to calm myself down and just tell myself I would have to just deal with this because this was my new reality.  I calmly answered the questions.  I mentioned to the ambulance man that time was moving by so slow, I was cold, and my heart was still warm.

He continued to thank me for the updates.

Why was I in hell?  What did I die of?  Why didn’t I see the light at the end of the tunnel like you always hear about?

Maybe I should have practiced my religion more, and not taken it so lightly.  My mom was right all these years.  And now I had to pay the ultimate price.

I wondered what the nice ambulance man had done to deserve his place in hell.  He was so nice, and now he was stuck with me past the end eternity.  He had probably been one of Jerry’s friends, which would be just about enough to do it.

I settled myself down.

I overheard the ambulance man and the registration lady discussing my predicament.  Then, I heard the word “Psychiatric.”  At which point, I totally flipped.

I pictured myself in a psychiatric ward for the rest of my life.

I’d lose my job.  Would my insurance pay for it?  Probably not.  Then I’d end up on the streets as a bag lady.  My friends would disown me, my family would be devastated.

I had a mental image of me drooling in a padded room with a jacket that zipped from the wrong side being served orange juice straight from a pitcher with a straw protruding from the spout.

Don’t drink the orange juice.  That’s where they hide the Haldol.  At least, that’s what they say. …whoever “THEY” are…

My family recently spent a lot of time trying to help my brother Dan with a crack addiction, and now I was in a psychiatric ward because I smoked a joint.  My nieces and nephews would of course have to be told, and they would lose all respect for me.

My life was falling apart before my eyes!

The ambulance man helped me gather my coat, purse and water, and then led me down the hall to a room labeled “Emergency Psychiatric Services.”

The worst nightmare I’ve never had come true. I was now being admitted to the Bam-Bam Club.

He sat me in the waiting room, explained my case to the receptionist, wished me good luck, and was on his way, probably laughing en-route to his ambulance.

This whole thing was a joke to him, I’m sure of it.  I asked him earlier if he was going to tell this story to all of his friends, and he just smiled.

A nice lady came around with a form for me to fill out.  I told her I needed help with it and I couldn’t do it by myself.  She told me to do as much as I could.  I tried to remain calm, as this was also part of my hell, so I just needed to deal with it.

The woman left the room, and I began to fill out the form.  The form was confusing at first; eventually it just seemed to be the same questions as before, over and over.  So I answered them.  Then I turned it over.

The first question was something like “What brings you to our office?”  I answered “An ambulance.”  The next question was “What can we do to help you?”  I answered “Help me.”

I can be fairly succinct, from time to time. Ask around.

There were several other questions like “Have you been treated for this problem before?” etc.  I answered all of them with one or two words.  I couldn’t write what I really wanted to say.  All the thoughts that went through my head were silent ones.  I couldn’t say or write what I really wanted to say.  My thoughts moved so fast, I couldn’t get them all down on paper.

After the form was filled out, I waited forever.  Looking behind the receptionist’s desk, it appeared as though everyone vacated the premises on direct orders from Beelzebub.

After a while, I finally said in a loud voice “I’m done.”  Then someone came out and said somebody else would be right with me.

I waited and waited.  I looked at the clock.

2:40pm.

Time was crawling by.  I tried reading a magazine to occupy my time.  Something about how Sarah Jessica Parker likes to exercise.  But as I finished each sentence, I couldn’t remember what the previous one had said.

Another woman came back out and handed me the form I had filled out, and told me it was wrong.  She asked me to do it again.  I begged her to help me, but she wouldn’t.  Finally she said she would watch me while I did it.

As I was filling it out, she kept telling me to slow down because I was rushing through the answers.  I alternated speeding up and relaxing my pace.  When I reached a certain point on the form, she left me for a few minutes, then came back and took it from me.

Again, I tried to read the Sarah Jessica Parker article.

The woman came back, and asked me to step into this room.

“Why?” I asked her.

“Just so we can talk for a while.” she answered.

I had no idea what she had in mind at this point, but I grabbed my coat, my water, and my magazine and headed into the room.

I asked her for a refill of my water, which she took care of.  This lady was great because she did anything I asked her to do, and fairly quickly.  She asked me a ton of questions though.  How often did I smoke pot, had I done any other drugs, and if so how often.

I kept asking her over and over again what she thought I had in me.

She didn’t seem to think the joint was laced with anything, and it was either very strong, or I just had a different reaction to it.

After talking with her for a long time, she finally told me I could stay here if I really wanted to, but it wasn’t truly necessary.

I thought to myself I would just see if I could get a hold of someone, and if so, I would have them come and get me, but I didn’t really want to be alone.  She seemed to think that was a good idea.

I tried calling my best friend Annette, she wasn’t there.

I knew my roommates were still at the theater.

My head was cloudy, and I couldn’t think of who to call.

Then I called my friend Jim, who I awoke from a afternoon nap.  I said to him on the phone, “Jim, this is Leanne.  I’m at U of M hospital, and I need you to come and get me.  I’m OK, but I need you to come and get me and I will explain when you get here.”

The lady in the psychiatric office gave Jim directions.

After we hung up the phone, she walked me down to the entrance and sat me down in a wheel chair where I waited.  She assured me I would recover in a few hours, and this would all be a story I would be telling to my friends.

After she left me, I sat waiting for Jim for what seemed like hours.  Even though the drug effects had considerably subsided, many paranoid thoughts consumed my brain.  Finally he showed up.  I can’t remember ever being happier to see a friendly face.

On the trip home, I told the whole story.  He was totally amazed at what happened to me.  We got back, and I donned some comfortable clothes, grabbed a blanket, while Jim made me some tea.

We sat and chatted about the whole episode.  I told him I didn’t know what to do about Jerry.

I was still very paranoid and embarrassed about the whole episode.  But, if that joint WAS laced with something and Jerry didn’t know about it, he could be in trouble.

I told Jim I wanted to call him and see if he was OK.  I didn’t want to cause Jerry any trouble, so if he did try to kill me, I just wanted to know he was OK, then wash myself of the whole thing.  I would cause no legal trouble for him or anything.

Jim sensed I was still slightly hysterical at this point, so he talked me out of calling  just then.

We sat and chatted for a while longer.  I noticed it was about 4:30; 3 hours into my episode.  Jim couldn’t believe how much had happened to me in such a short time.  He thanked me for keeping his life exciting.

After a while, the crew from the theater arrived.  After a brief explanation of what happened to me, Jim wanted to see if my roommate Becca (a 2nd year pre-med. student) thought I had anything in me other than pot.  She didn’t really know, but thought probably not.

Jim left and I explained the rest of the story to my friends.

When I told them I thought Jerry tried to kill me, they assured me he would not do that.  He had offered the joint to them as well, and just from what they knew of him, didn’t think he was out to hurt me.

We were all concerned though, because of the reaction I had.  So Becca called Jerry.  She got his machine, and left a message.  His answering machine automatically pages him, so I knew he would get our message right away.  No answer.

About an hour later, she tried again to no avail.  We decided to take a ride over to his place to see if he was there, because we were all concerned, and I really wanted to be rid of this whole episode.

I knocked on his door.  No answer.  My paranoia of him skipping town seemed to have come true.  Either that or he was laughing his tukus off about the whole episode somewhere with a friend.  Butthole!

Finally about 8pm I called again.  I said “I know you’re probably pissed at me, but I need to know your OK, and we need to talk.”

No reply other than the end-beep of the message tape, which had been a sample from a cowbell.

As I laid down for bed at about 10pm, I was feeling OK, but still had effects of the drug in me.  I was afraid to go to sleep, for fear of having nightmares.  I really wanted to talk to Jerry, and all sorts of paranoid thoughts continued to swim in my head.  Creep. Jerk. Fartnugget!

Just as I was dozing off to sleep, the phone rang.  It was him.

We spoke for about 2 hours that night.

I know in my heart he didn’t try to kill me, and he felt terrible for what had happened.  I thought it was funny, because he thought I should be mad at him, and in my opinion, we had both made mistakes in this whole episode.  It might be best for both of us to just forgive and forget.

I felt terrible for the feelings I had and for the things I accused him of.  I try hard not to make a big deal of it, but it is hard for me to forget, owing to the magnitude of emotion I felt throughout my 3 hour episode.

I told him on the phone that night that I would never be smoking it again, and he replied with “Good, because I wouldn’t let you anyway.”

Pompous Egocentric Self-Worshiping Transient Stud!

Copyright Vic Velcro, June 2009 all rights reserved.
Non-Exclusive permission granted to post on website of http://www.aspkin.com

If you would like to make a guest post for aspkin.com, email me at aspkin [at] yahoo [dot] com

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Donald F.

Donald F.

Creator of SFB, eBay Stealth and Amazon Ghost at aspkin

I’m Donald, I have a passion for making money online and teaching others how to make money online. If you haven’t read Six Figure Boss already, check it out. It’s a complete step-by-step guide to to creating your own online business. I also wrote eBay Stealth and Amazon Ghost!

Donald F.

@aspkin

A Workaholic, Affiliate Marketing Expert, Adwords & Adsense Master, EBay Guru, Black Hat Wizard, Statistics Major, Publisher…

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Donald F.

Donald F.

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7 Responses to Dinner and a Movie, Minus the Dinner but Breakfast Instead, and No Movie

  1. Philly387

    WOW…I can’t believe I read that whole thing. That is some crazy adventure.

     
  2. birty

    Yeah, very interesting and a good read. I connected with the story from experience. There are lots of things I would never do again.

     
  3. Lyda

    Great story! It’s life…….

     
  4. Chris

    The counter at the end of the article says it has only been read 216 times. That is a shame, because it was f’in hilarious! It’s not what happened, it was the way you told it (ok, and partially what happened)

     
  5. Mark

    haha, read the whole thing. Interesting story.

     
  6. huy

    brb… currently directing a movie with this bloggg

     
  7. LaVidaLoca

    Funny, in all seriousness I was waiting for the final paragraph to say you passed out after the 3 hits and imagined all this.

     

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