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According to the annual Global Drug Survey, tripping your balls off on the magical fungi that grows in cow shit is the best way to forget you’re flying through the ever-expanding space-time continuum on a tiny rock that could be on a collision course with an infinite amount of unknown objects that could single-handedly eliminate life as we know it in the flash of a second.
More than 12,000 people said they did shrooms in 2016 and just 0.2 percent of them said they needed emergency medical care afterward, a rate that was five to six times lower than LSD, cocaine, MDMA, and alcohol, and three times lower than weed.
Honestly, it kind of ruins the appeal of shrooms for me. I need a little suspense and an element of danger with my drugs. When I’m launching off to the moon, I want to know there’s a slight chance that my vessel could very easily turn into the Space Shuttle Challenger.
It’s kind of like my philosophy with every PG-13 superhero movie that studios jerk off onto the screen nowadays. You know the ending. They survive. Now obviously, that’s what you’re pulling for. But if there’s not even a little part of you that’s on the edge of your seat unsure whether or not they’re going to make it, why waste your time?
I don’t care if there’s a spotted, technicolored Zebra playing “The Sound of Silence” on a kazoo in the corner of the room that has suddenly formed into an ancient Egyptian tomb where the walls continually crumble but never actually cave. If there’s no threat that this could be the rest of my existence on a perpetual loop, it really doesn’t have my curiosity or attention. LSD it is..
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