God, I hate blogs that start this way

Here I go, indulging in one of my most hated pet peeves in the realm of blogging: the "hey, this is why I decided to start a blog, here is the first one, here I fucking go" post.

I have another blog.  People read it.  Quite a few, in fact.  Listen to me, toot my own goddamn horn.  One of the people who happens to (quite frequently) read my blog, would be my mother.  Some things, a true gentleman just doesn't want his mother to read.  I think my mother's uterus would wither up inside her, were she to encounter the fuck word in one of my posts.

Anyways.

It is time for a new outlet; one which isn't so censored.  Because most of what I would love to write about, I never end up writing about.  You know, the whole withering uterus thing.  I love my mother, and the last thing I wish to do, is ruin her uterus.  Or at the very least cause her to curse that uterus from whence I erupted, so very long ago.

Last night, I decided that it was time for a new life experience.  Since, because I love wearing plaid, I also inherently love the band Ratatat, I thought that at a concert, surrounded by my dearest friends, as well as a slough of pre-pubescent 10 year olds, glow stick twirling fucking rejects, and killer beats, that ecstasy might be something I should delve into.

Mind you, I have always been fairly anti drug.  I was the goddamned poster child for D.A.R.E. until my mid twenties.  And, in fact, I am still, to a certain degree, against the idea of drugs (but not, obviously, the idea of using at least—but not limited to—6 commas in one short sentence.)  I don't like the idea of relying upon chemical means to create an experience.  I have always feared developing a dependence upon said chemicals, to experience anything extraordinary.

I have, however, always been somewhat curious about ecstasy.  I mean anything that "will make you feel super fucking cool dude," is like, a pretty easy sell for me.  I'm just waiting for some shaky as shit meth head to approach me with a spoon, lighter, and a mouth full of rotten teeth to offer me a fucking good time.

Done.

Anyways, some of my friends occasionally delve into the lighter side of the drug world.  All had been planning for weeks to have a glorious, drug induced, mutually enlightening experience during Ratatat.  Our hearts were going to meld together during a couple short hours of drug enhanced cognizance.

Weighing in at about 200 lbs, 1.6 hits wasn't quite enough for me.  Or, I have an innate drug resilience gene.  Either way, I wasn't rolling as I had hoped.  While I felt "cool," it was short of "super fucking cool."

What the drug did do, however, was sweep me into a very pensive, contemplative state.  After the show, I felt as though I was drifting through time, like a semi-substantial ghost, flowing through a jell-o mold.  One thing I realized, in this pretty-fucking-hard to describe state, was that I'm a terribly judgmental human being.  This occurred to me for a couple of reasons.

First of all, Little Bean told me I was judgmental as shit.  But she included herself, and her boyfriend in that assessment.  And I think, for the first time in my life, I whole heartedly agreed with that evaluation.  I have always deemed myself the penultimate accepting person, because I grew up in a Mormon society, yet still manage to love gays, and people who "sin."  Look at me, high fiving illegal immigrants, bitches eschewing previously live fetuses into bio-hazard bags, and stem cell researchers.

But in reality, I'm a big goddamned fraud.

I see the dude with the huge arm muscles, god-awful tribal shit tattooed all over them, wearing an Affliction t-shirt and immediately assume he is a big fucking douche.  And maybe, 90% of the time, I am absolutely right.  But who am I to judge?  How did I become this pretentious hipster piece of shit, who immediately shifts into a state of absolute reticence the moment some alien other enters my comfort zone?  "God, she is wearing flare jeans.  Who the hell invited her?"

What an asshole.

I'm so tired of not giving people the benefit of the doubt.  Because EVERYBODY deserves the benefit of the doubt.  Who is anybody to judge anyone else?  In the end, I think we're all just trying to find something that makes us feel like we fit into the universe in a meaningful way.  Some people find that in religion.  Some people find it in art.  Some people find it in weed.  Who gives a shit.  All I know is, I am done immediately assuming the worst.

I also realized last night, now much I love and adore certain people in my life.  This isn't something that is singularly drug induced—I often have sober, infinite moments when I realize that I really truly love a human being.

 I realized that I love Herminio when, as he sat on the railing, high above some 60's era vehicle, I thought that if he got bumped off by one of the drunken idiots on the balcony, and ended up in a mangled pile of bone and viscera on a concave car hood, that I would be really fucking upset, and maybe the offender would follow him over the railing.

I realized that I really love Little Bean, when the thought of her being accidentally pregnant, and moving home, really hurt my heart.

I realized how much I really love Padraic when Arnold Schwarzenegger came on screen, and all I could think about was how much I wanted him to be there to see that.  He loves Arnold so much.

I don't need drugs to be happy.  I don't need drugs to create meaningful experiences.  But, it seems, that sometimes....they sure help nudge you there.

Here I fucking go.