Freak out in the pink room

Sunday morning. Hangover. No time for breakfast. Have to get The Girlfriend to Heathrow. M40. Fast. Too fast. Heathrow–North circular–home.
Then TheBoy comes round, bringing fungus. Columbian fungus. Not For Beginners. Well, at least one of us isn’t a beginner.
Even though it’s a psychedelic, you feel it first in your stomach. You know it’s coming. Impending doom. It rushes through your veins; a bolus in the blood of fear, anxiety, expectation, anticipation, excitement. Do the others feel it? Paranoia. Is it just me? Do they feel this? Are they playing with me? Laughing at me because I’m about to lose it?
And then the smiles start. Uncontrollable giggles. Laughter. It stops; you catch someone’s eye and start again. Nothing too hectic, just a relaxing feeling.

A music TV channel was on in the background. Things are becoming a little weird. Bros are more hilarious than usual. Is that video special effects, or is it me? My limbs are weak. My concentration is gone. TheBoy turns off the channel, puts on a film. The walls are vivid. More so than usual. Everything is breathing. In. Out. In. Out. Slowly. Metronomically. The film plays in the background, drawing me in. My attention wanders. I laugh at the film.
TheBoy is looking at the fan. He’s confused. It’s giving him the come-on. She’s a minx, he says. You’re ceiling has pretty colours and shapes on it, he says. So it does, I say. We laugh. Are they normally this strong, he says.
Change the film, he says, the man is staring at me. I change the film. I put a cartoon on. Futurama. It’s funny. Time is very slow. We laugh. TheBoy can’t stand up properly. He crawls around. He sits behind the sofa, laughing. My head is heavy. The TV is making me laugh, but I’m only half watching.
TheBoy turns Darth Tater around. He was staring at me, he says. I go to the bathroom. It’s pure white. It’s vast. I stand there for a minute. I realise that it’s my bathroom. I’m confused. I leave.
TheBoy goes outside for a cigarette. The nature is strange, he says, there’s lots of it. I was out there for a long time, he says. He might have been, I think, but it didn’t seem like long. We talk. We laugh. He tries to draw me. He tries to draw the puppy. He can’t tell which of us is which, he says. Pets are supposed to look like their owners, I say. Not stuffed toy pets, he says. We could take it for a walk, I say. I’m not having my mum read about me being kicked to death in east London because I took a stuffed toy for a walk, he says. We laugh.
He goes outside for another cigarette. I join him outside. Nature seems mild compared to the living room. It’s not pink enough, I say. There’s not enough going on, I say.
We go for a walk to the park. We get bored on the way. We walk through the estate and laugh at the architecture. We go back to the flat. It’s weaker now. We watch TV. It’s the Simpsons. It’s funnier than it should be. We laugh. We talk. It’s wearing off.

It’s about 7pm and we’re both shattered. We order a pizza and watch the Incredibles. It’s a draining feeling, but a pleasant one. He goes home. I go to bed.