My machete, my mushrooms, and me

Image shows a shirtless young man laughing as he leans against a pickup truck.

I stumbled down the residential street, my mind a kaleidoscope from the ‘shrooms. The cool night air felt electric, and I felt invincible.

Danger? No way. Fuck it!

A house caught my eye. I banged on the front door until the glass shattered. A family, perched on a sofa, shifted their gaze from Netflix to me.

I shed my clothes, reveling in the freedom. Get a load of this, you stinking normies!

Then, headlights, blue lights, red lights, and cop voices flooded the street. I swung a machete over my head and dove into the bed of a pickup parked in the driveway.

Machete? Where the fuck did I get that?

Johnny Law dogpiled me in seconds; a burly officer knocked my blade aside. I tore the left-side mirror from the truck as the cops wrestled me to the concrete.

At the hospital, I ripped out four IVs before orderlies strapped me to an exam table. The sedatives took hold, and my world faded to black.

The next day I awoke puking in a County Detention Center holding cell. Maybe running around naked and terrifying a family hadn’t been the best way to party.

Would it help if I sent them an apology note?