Do You Know The Mushroom Man?

I have a hole in my ankle the circumference of a dime, can barely stand and have the worst gas I've ever had...this was how the night ended.

This is how the night began...

I ventured out to witness the local drunken creatures of the eve.  I got what I came for.  As the night drew to what I conceived as being its close, I met a man named M.  He had a friend with the handle D.  I smelled a set-up.  M gorged on something fried then buggered off.  D began conversation with me immediately after M bolted by confessing his wife had just left him.  Keep in mind, I did not ask, we had just met and he didn't know my name yet.  So, clearly the man needed someone slightly more sensitive to speak to than a counterpart who fills his face with samosa's then jets.  I invite D to open up.  He mentions that this is a 'having a smoke kind of convo' so he gives a chick with rainbow hair five bucks for one and begins his woeful tale of love lost.

He had just purchased a new lawn-mower to landscape his three properties that him and his lady owned together.  He has money.  She called to him from one of their superfluous and somewhat unnecessary porches, to come on inside.  Once inside, she said she wanted to split.  No warning or explanation to the end of an eight year relationship.  Boom.  Done.  Take your new lawn-mower and go fuck yourself.  Of course, this is how he tells it and he's cute and vulnerable so I sympathize.

D then mentions he needs to go home and walk his puppy.  I am invited to attend to such matters and of course I go.  It's 2am, I've had four pints and there is a dog somewhere that needs to poop!  I'm there.  He gallantly pays my bill and off we split.  He apologizes on the cab ride over for the state of his shitty 'apartment'.  Clearly embarrassed that he's not showing me one of his three mansions that the wife now owns.  His 'apartment' is a two storey palatial heaven.  Not what I would ever designate this manor as being an 'apartment' but, ok dude, you feel bad about this.  Anyway, his place is awesome and his dog is adorbs, win win.  He supplies me with an alternate pair of shoes for puppy time as I decided on heels for my evening of exploit.  This guy starts checking some boxes for me.  Chivalrous, caring, dog owning, rich, trained by someone other than myself...so far so good.  After the incorrigible mutt was walked and pooped, we cracked a beer and blasted some tunes.  The first thing he plays is The Beatles.  Check.  Then he asks me if I want to do some mushrooms from the giant bag stashed in his fridge.  Checkcheck.  They were capsules so I took one, not sure on the affect that they would have.  He says he's been popping them all night and he seemed pretty level headed.

As I wait for the awesome high I'm sure to experience (it is BC psychedelics by the by), we chat by one of the three fires in his 'apartment'.  Then shit begins to unravel.  By shit, I mean D.

An Alan Jackson song comes on and he bursts into tears.  I feel somehow responsible for the improvement of his heart situation so I squeeze him tight while he sobs uncontrollably and speaks through weeps of the times shared with bitch-beast ex-wifey.  We've all been there.  Also, for a moment, I wasn't the most pitiful excuse for relationships gone wrong in the room and I took solace in this.

Then the farting began.  Having taken however many mushroom capsules from the six hundred dollar feast on his kitchen counter was beginning to affect his guts in a most inconvenient way.  If you've never done shrooms...they can give you what's so affectionately known as 'gut-rot'.  You are ingesting a poison for which your body now spends six hours or so, trying to deal with on a few different levels.  The capsules were causing some toxic gastrointestinal release.  So through the tears, D farted.  A lot.  It smelt bad.  I didn't want to laugh for he was in an altered and fragile state.  I tried to keep my attention on the cute rescue pup and the fact that we had the same shower curtain.  After a time of mournful country,  loud and oppressive farting, and a perfectly would-be romantic sitch ruined, D jolts up and says he needs to remove his contacts.  He takes off his shirt, for some reason, asks me my name and what I do for work for the third time in two hours then heads to one of  three ensuites to take his eyeballs out.  I ask if I can watch as I find it so satisfying removing things from the body.  He takes out his ability to see, puts on a hat and then tells me the reason he left his wife was because they weren't fucking anymore.  Wait.  Several mushroom caps earlier you said she left you and there was no rhyme or reason.  Kk...I'm a apart of this train-wreck now...let's see how many passengers we find.

He calls me Lacey for a little while, I let him cuz he is now my experiment.  Back on the couch I ask him about his work as he's a producer for a video game company.  Hence the extravagant expenditure of coin.  The guy literally doesn't know what to do with it all so he buys bags of mushrooms and homes he doesn't need for a love that is now irrelevant.  I ask him if he plays vids and he yells, "I'm a MAN!  I don't do such things."  I was asking as there was a play-station controller on his solid oak coffee table.

"Oh.  Well, sometimes I get high and play," he says shrugging off the obvious previous fib.

I'm growing weary of the falsities and the fact that my mushrooms aren't affecting me in the least.  I decide to crash for a bit as it's now four in the a.m.  He takes off his pants, and asks me join him in his room.  He has a pretty alright body but he's morphed into such a gradual douche that I can't even be bothered to sit on his face for which he asks me repeatedly if I would.  He then tells me he can dance and kind of kills it in the center of the room.  He becomes this whirling dervish of fancy feet and killer moves.  Who is this fucking guy?  One minute he seems like such a catch, then he can't remember my name, cries, farts without remorse and removes a piece of clothing.

It's time to go.  I grab my shit and head for the door.  He gets indignant.  True colors are so palpable when you don't spread your legs.

"So it's gonna be like that then?" He says pointed and dismissive.  I say nothing, put on my patriarchal torture devices that make my calves pop(yes I get the irony in this composition), and out the door I head...into the fucking rain at 4 a.m.  I call a cab but the driver's an idiot(story for another time) so I decide to walk the rest of the way in heels with mushroom capsules beginning to wreak havoc on my tummy-tum.  I arrive alive, smelling like a wet dog as I had just played with a dry one for a few hours previous.  My feet are killing me, blisters have formed and popped several times over and the gas is now commencing.  I spend the next five hours with a bloated gut, bleeding feet and a story to tell.

A successful night indeed.