Conversations With God on Five Grams of Golden Teachers

It’s hard to put into words where I’m at right now. The little poster of neon pyramids on my wall kind of swarms and swirls. Slowly, but surely, reality is breaking down. It’s like I’m just the tiniest drop in an infinite oceans. My ego is gone. But, holy shit, I know this and other people don’t!

This all started when Tommy and I went over to his girl-friend’s house. His girl-friend was this chick by the name of Cassidy. She had black-hair, a very pale face, and worked at the Denny’s all the way across town.

One time I was over at Tommy’s house after he got back from a Hindu Monastery in Taos, New Mexico. As Tommy showed me all the pictures he took, a screenshot of his texts with Cassidy popped up. It looked like they were having some weird form of text-sex. Not super intimate or anything, really, just fucking weird. I still have the words burned in my brain.

Sammy also managed an OnlyFans page where she was a dominatrix. I was once over at Tommy’s house and Cassidy was there too. She was talking about this customer she had, and how he was only attracted to feet. Not tits or ass, or personality. No. Just feet.

Apparently the guy regularly ordered toenail clippings from OnlyFans stars, and Cassidy was no exception. I brought up the idea of selling him my toenails, and Cassidy was fine with it. So, while Tommy and Cassidy stood in the kitchen, I just went to the bathroom and began clipping my toenails. So, now, there’s probably some guy out there who’s eaten my toenails.

When Tommy and I were over at Sammy’s house and the discussion of psychedelics came up, Sammy said she knew a dealer who grew his own shrooms in his closet. You’d think a drug dealer would be rough and violent guy, but that wasn’t the case. This shrooms dealer was just a completely normal guy. Think, a guy you’d meet at your local gym and then forget. Totally unremarkable.

Sammy agreed to get some for us on one condition: “I do not like drugs. I don’t want drugs in this house. You get the shrooms and then leave, you got it?”

I turned to Tommy and we both nodded. “Sounds good.” I said.

The shroom-dealer texted back saying he had six grams available. But he also didn’t want to get out of bed. I groaned and threw my hands up into the air as if this was life-ruining. Sammy then said the words, “Tommy has five grams in plant pot.”

“Dude! Seriously?” Tommy belted out. “Those were my shrooms for when I’m having a bad day!”

“Tom, you haven’t eaten them in months. Chill out.”

Tommy groaned and said, “I know that—but, dude. THEY’RE MINE.”

I almost felt bad for Tommy. But I also knew that I would be getting my hands on some shrooms. So Tommy and I got into his car and drove to his place.

Tommy had once explained to me that the Om is the sound of God. When you pronounce it, you’re not supposed to end it. You’re simply supposed to let it flow out of you for as long as possible, like that of God.

At Tommy’s house, we went inside and Tommy grabbed the shrooms. It was in a little baggy, and the shrooms were in the form of little pills. You were basically supposed to take them as micro-doses. They were meant to be something to help you get through the day. But as both you and me know, that wouldn’t be happening tonight.

“Alright, Payte,” He said, “Either you’re taking all of them, or I’m taking all of them.”

“Why’s that?”

“You’re on SSRIs, remember? So you need to take way more to even feel a slight effect. And I’m a big guy, so I need to take more to even feel it. So, are you gonna take all of them? Or is it gonna be me?”

I stared down at the capsules. There were ten of them. In hindsight, it was obvious that it wouldn’t be that bad of a trip. Really, all I’d get was a head-high, and maybe a cool story to tell. But, even with all of that, it was still scary.

“Fuck it, I’ll take all of them.” I said.

“Alright! I was waiting for you to say that.”

Tommy handed the capsules to me, and I shoved them in my mouth. I took a glug of water, and swallowed all ten pills.

When we got got to my house, I swear that I could feel the vibrations from the music. It was as if I was swimming in the guitar, and the music was flowing through my body.

We went inside, and turned on the xbox while I waited for the shrooms to fully hit. As we played Halo, the come-up started, and I found myself constantly giggling. For some reason, everything was so much more funnier.

Sometime later, I decided I needed to lay down on the couch. It was comforting and I felt very relaxed. It seemed that laying down on anything was ten times better while high.

I opened my eyes for a second and saw Tommy looking at me. “So, I got a question for you?” He said.

I closed my eyes. “Yeah? What is it?”

“Is the whole laying down thing, your brain trying to control the trip?”
I paused for a second. I hadn’t thought of that, but it certainly felt like it. “Yes. I think that’s it, actually.”

Tommy chuckled and placed the controller down, then turned the Xbox off. “Alright Payte, I’m leaving.”

“What? Why?”

“So you have no choice but to fully trip. Go lay down in the dark or something.”

And just like that, Tommy was gone. The door had been closed.

I walked into my room and collapsed onto my bed. I had heard stories of people doing nothing but laying down in the dark while on shrooms and having insane effects. I wanted this.

What followed was twenty minutes of rocking back and forth in bed, and sobbing. I was convinced that I was the weirdest kid on the block, and that no one liked me. I believed that I could not talk to people at all, and every time I opened my mouth, everyone cringed. I hated myself in that moment, and it was a deep self-hatred. But then, just as I couldn’t take it anymore, I suddenly realized that people liked me because I WAS weird. People liked me for my flaws, just how I loved others for their flaws.

I then got the sudden idea to write while high on shrooms. I was just about to finish my first novel, H, and I hated it. I originally started the novel because I wanted to be a famous author. Yes, I had heard countless times that your first novel is always shit. But I had always responded with the same thing, “Well, I’ll try anyway.” x

So I went into my garage and lit up a cigarette and tried to type. The only thing was, I could not focus for shit. Everything suddenly felt overwhelming, but not in a bad way. It was a more, “This is way too beautiful,” kind of overwhelming.

I began to read what I had written and was struck with the realization that my writing was actually pretty good. As I read further and further, I became convinced that H would make me famous. When that realization hit, I began to panic. I jumped up and down with panic written all over my face. So much energy was flowing through me, that I couldn’t stop moving. In that moment, I did not want to be famous at all. I began to cry.