On Spirituality
Marijuana users often sit in nature to commune with animals; LSD users will experience nature and commune with the spirit of the animals. Like a vision quest, they will find their Power Animal. I have been a lot more in tune with myself since I first looked into the eyes of the Snake and realized that our spirits were one. When I was younger, I thought my Power Animal had been a weasle, but I was wrong. It was a very bitter time in my life.
There was that moment of recognition, though, when our eyes met, and I knew that I would have to kill it in a very Mystic ceremony, rife with combat and peril and stunning blows.
Perhaps I should start at the beginning. I had been commending myself on an excellent job decorating my room in my new house in Mill Woods. I celebrated a job well done by eating a 5-chunk of blotter acid and turning on my christmas lights, basking in the glow reflecting off the tinfoil over the window. I realized quickly, though, that I hadn't had the foresight to purchase any Dole apple juice - the quickest way to calm an acid-freakout. I pulled on blue sunglasses and my communist cap, and trotted downstairs and outside, beelining for the corner store.
If you haven't seen my house at that time, there was a church beside me with huge, colored spotlights sihouetting it like God's Personal Pad. The grass was always green, even after winter the grass was still green. It was clearly His Turf. Beside it was a grassy field where I caught crickets for my komodo dragon, and after that, a Mac's Convenience Store. It was in the knee high, yellowed grass of the field that I came upon the Snake.
The thing was enourmous: grey and black, triangled with vicious looking scales, lashing tongue, and vile, venomous teeth. I should have seen it against the green grass but my downfall was twofold: It made no warning sound; it had no rattle. This was a creature designed for stealth and brute strength. Second, it had somehow become late evening, and in my sunglasses I could see next to nothing except God's pillars of colour. I was practically atop the best when it coiled down, baring fangs, and lashed out at me.
I rolled aside, performing the harrowing Zempo Kaiten technique, barely dodging snapping jaw. I knew it was attack or be attacked. Kill or be Killed.
The fight was epic, but I was unable to reach my laptop and accurately choreograph the battle.
I emerged triumphant, though, holding the Snake's intact skin as a prize, my mouth red with the blood of his heart. I have had a fluid sort of motion, since then - a glide in my walk. My strikes, too, flow with liquid graze, and fast as a Rattler - SNAP. I've received countless compliments on the nimbleness of my tongue. I defeated the beast, and it succumbed to me.
Finding your Power Animal might not come so easy - nor will it necessarily end with an excellent snakeskin blanket. In fact, it's possible that the Natives made this all up to delude the foolish White Man, laughing in their longhouses as acid-mad societal throwbacks thrash about in fields, fighting invisible monsters.
There was that moment of recognition, though, when our eyes met, and I knew that I would have to kill it in a very Mystic ceremony, rife with combat and peril and stunning blows.
Perhaps I should start at the beginning. I had been commending myself on an excellent job decorating my room in my new house in Mill Woods. I celebrated a job well done by eating a 5-chunk of blotter acid and turning on my christmas lights, basking in the glow reflecting off the tinfoil over the window. I realized quickly, though, that I hadn't had the foresight to purchase any Dole apple juice - the quickest way to calm an acid-freakout. I pulled on blue sunglasses and my communist cap, and trotted downstairs and outside, beelining for the corner store.
If you haven't seen my house at that time, there was a church beside me with huge, colored spotlights sihouetting it like God's Personal Pad. The grass was always green, even after winter the grass was still green. It was clearly His Turf. Beside it was a grassy field where I caught crickets for my komodo dragon, and after that, a Mac's Convenience Store. It was in the knee high, yellowed grass of the field that I came upon the Snake.
The thing was enourmous: grey and black, triangled with vicious looking scales, lashing tongue, and vile, venomous teeth. I should have seen it against the green grass but my downfall was twofold: It made no warning sound; it had no rattle. This was a creature designed for stealth and brute strength. Second, it had somehow become late evening, and in my sunglasses I could see next to nothing except God's pillars of colour. I was practically atop the best when it coiled down, baring fangs, and lashed out at me.
I rolled aside, performing the harrowing Zempo Kaiten technique, barely dodging snapping jaw. I knew it was attack or be attacked. Kill or be Killed.
The fight was epic, but I was unable to reach my laptop and accurately choreograph the battle.
I emerged triumphant, though, holding the Snake's intact skin as a prize, my mouth red with the blood of his heart. I have had a fluid sort of motion, since then - a glide in my walk. My strikes, too, flow with liquid graze, and fast as a Rattler - SNAP. I've received countless compliments on the nimbleness of my tongue. I defeated the beast, and it succumbed to me.
Finding your Power Animal might not come so easy - nor will it necessarily end with an excellent snakeskin blanket. In fact, it's possible that the Natives made this all up to delude the foolish White Man, laughing in their longhouses as acid-mad societal throwbacks thrash about in fields, fighting invisible monsters.