i was going to tell you all about the time i went camping by myself in an ancient belgian forest with a bunch of books by delueze and foucault in order to gain "persepective" or some shit like that and i fell asleep under the stars in a damp sleeping bag that was somehow pressed against the sheet of acid i'd haphazardly stuffed in my duffel bag, so that by the time i woke up i was tripping balls-- i mean we're talkin seeing the whole world as though it were a background gel for the simpsons. and what's worse is i had to figure out that i was tripping, and not just going crazy. i felt around and saw what happened with the soaked ass faker patagonia bag and i somehow managed to put it together.

anyway, i was going to go into the whole thing, the tidal wave of a trip that it was--plus the fact that i was all alone, just me and all the revelations i had and the things the trees said to me but i can't be arsed so i'll just cut to the chase:

when you find yourself on a trip, the best thing to do do is trip out.

sometimes in order to keep from going crazy, you have to stop making sense.

that is all for now, my children.

next show, 10 PM.


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