Crazy Enough by Storm Large Page B

and an adorably manicured path. We parked ourselves under some rare maple tree, and went on to stare at normal people.
    We were surrounded by Ronald Reagan’s America. The clean people trying to stay all clean and look normal. Our very presence was a ringing fuck you . We were a handful of angry little turds floating in their Perrier, and we loved it.
    The drugs started to tingle and shake me loose from my mid-spine, into my chest and up my throat. I felt a gag rise but a swig of cold Coke knocked it back down. When that wild juice starts kicking open your spackled brain holes, there isn’t a lot of nuance to your thinking. There are those fleeting sweet and terrible moments where you think that you may not come back from this trip.
    The visuals swim and expand. The first thing you notice is how utterly repulsive some humans look. Facial features get blown way out of proportion, babies look like mewling larvae, and any woman withmakeup on was a greasy horrible clown whore that eats raw bacon with her huge clawed hands.
    Whoa, come back, okay.
    The giggles kick in. Giddy, nervous snickering that gives way to hysterical, total, pee-leaking, laughter. Like a crazy bag of tickle bugs bust open in my chest. I would laugh at anything and everything. Cancer? Child prostitution? A five-year-old with no arms or legs turning tricks to pay for chemo? Hilarious!
    Reality vaulted from under my feet, and the world became a swimming, sweaty cartoon. Trying to suppress the maniacal giggling, I started going off on my friends. “It is so fucking hot, you guys. Why the fuck are we wearing so many damn clothes?”
    We all had on studded leather motorcycle jackets and army boots. I had on a torn-up black thermal shirt and army pants. It was very important you wore the required punk-rock attire, the grubbier and more torn up, the better. But, on such a muggy hot day, it was, as they say in Boston, re-tahded. We were walking around under heaps of unnecessary fabric, growing heavier by the minute in the heat. It was completely ridiculous. I suddenly felt a bolt of truth, logic, clear and unarguable, blast to the surface. I leveled my wide-pupiled gaze to my fellow revelers and spoke my truth: “Clothes are a lie.”
    It occurred to me that our outfits, everyone’s outfits, were just costumes declaring wordlessly to the world who and what we were; who and what we would and wouldn’t do, what we listened to. It was like waving our own little flag for our own little fucked up country, but underneath it all we were the same! Smooth and simple, scared and yearning little meat tubes full of poop, hopes, and fears and now, most important, we were all, collectively as one, fucking unbearably hot. Sweating like hot dogs in our stupid,societally appointed declarations of identity! I say, fuck that! Say it with me!
    â€œClothes are a lie!” My friends laughed, repeating my battle cry. I tore off my jacket, flopped onto my butt in the grass to yank off my boots. I looked at my partners to join me. No? No one? Really? I went to unclip my studded belt, smiling, “C’mon you guys. Let’s do this!”
    â€œClothes are a lie!” They were now crowing and laughing but staying totally dressed. I yanked open my belt with a ta-da! And they cheered. I knew I was going to be on my own in this, but I was high, on fire, and diamond-hard committed.
    There’s always that one standout moment, good or bad, in every acid trip, that one recalls forever, and right now it was mine.
    And it was time for my pants to come off.
    I was so high everything made sense. I was Susan B. fucking Anthony, Iggy Pop, and Patti Smith. I was Bill Murray when he gives that awesome speech in Stripes, and later, he gives a similar speech in Meatballs, when he gets everyone to chant, “It just doesn’t matter! It just doesn’t matter!” I was a liberator. I was taking off my clothes consciously . I was stripping for freedom,