Today’s Bad Date Diary is a cautionary tale about the residual effects of a bad date I had back in 2013.
A few days after my ‘experience’ I wrote a lightly dramatized recap of what happened, adding loose dialogue to fill fuzzier lapses of time, and stored it in my iCloud. I had never shared my written account of that night until now…
[Also, In the spirit of misrepresented horticulture, I’ve given this post a “Little Shop of Horrors” theme. So deal with it Seymour.]
Saturday, June 29th 2013
At least I’ll look cute when I die. I thought as the EMT strapped my arms and legs to the stretcher before rolling me into the ambulance. My chest was covered with cold electrodes under my sweaty tank top. I looked down at my brand new skinny jeans—what a waste of a great outfit.
“Am I gonna die??” I asked.
“I doubt it.” The handsome EMT answered with a calming smile. “I’m going to give you this IV and these oxygen tubes. Just try to relax man. We want to make sure you’re not having a heart attack. We should be at the hospital soon, the synthetic weed usually takes a few hours to wear off.”
Synthetic?? Heart attack?! I thought. What if I don’t live to meet Beyonce or hold Blue Ivy?? What If I go to jail? How can I possibly take a good mugshot pic in this condition? Wild thoughts danced through my head as I was transported to the nearest hospital.
“A few hours??” I finally asked anxiously, feeling my heart rate beginning to normalize.
“Yep.” he answered. “It’s going to be a long night for you my friend.”
WTF is “synthetic marijuana” you ask?
[Synthetic cannabinoids refer to a growing number of man-made mind-altering chemicals that are either sprayed on dried, or shredded plant material. These chemicals are called cannabinoids because they are related to chemicals found in the marijuana plant. Because of this similarity, synthetic cannabinoids are sometimes misleadingly called “synthetic marijuana” (or “fake weed”). In fact, they may affect the brain much more powerfully than marijuana; their actual effects can be unpredictable and, in some cases, severe or even life-threatening.] via drugabuse.gov
I woke up a few hours later in a groggy blur and glanced around a tiny hospital room. I was awakened by the beeping of monitors and the hideous voice of some belligerent bitch arguing with a nurse in the next room about her Oxycontins. A cloud of embarrassment and disbelief enveloped me as I digested my scenery.
This wasn’t just a bad dream after all.
I noticed that my arm and leg restraints had been removed since I proved to be non-threatening. Well that’s a positive takeaway, I thought.
“If only he could see my now.” I said under my breath, in reference to the ex-boyfriend I had gone to extreme lengths to avoid seeing. We dated for four years and this was going to be my first gay pride festival without him. Going bar hopping during pride weekend meant seeing literally every homosexual within a 200 mile radius. With this in mind, I smoked a joint I was given a week prior to calm my nerves. Pretty ironic huh?
I took a few more disheartened glances around the hospital room before dozing off again.
I was wakened a bit later by a sweet man named Dr. Kwanzaa. Once I finished interrogating him about his name; making sure that I wasn’t just hallucinating my doctor to have the same name as an African-American holiday; he gave me the results of my urine tests. There were no recognizable drugs in my system. My suspicions were officially confirmed. The guy with the crooked teeth from Adam4adam gave me fake weed.
I could feel the guilt rising as I thought about how I would only agree to see him at night and needed to be high in order to hook up with him.
Maybe this was my karma for using the guy. I guess getting dome and what I thought was free “green” was just too good to be true. I must have missed the fine print on his Adam profile that read, “A date with me will cost you your dignity and the astronomical fare of an ambulance ride.”
I considered calling one of my best friends to pick me up from the hospital but I didn’t want to ruin their night on account of my stupidity. Furthermore, I wasn’t ready to recount the happenings of my evening just yet. Instead, I sent a mass text to friends whom I’d worried with cryptic messages sent during my spice-induced mania.
The mass text read:
“Smoked fake weed. Didn’t get arrested. Leaving hospital. #FuckMyLife.”
I quickly gathered my cellphone, money clip and the pinch of pride I still clung to and was discharged.
I looked at the clock behind the nurse’s station, it read 4:15am.
The wrinkled white woman occasionally glanced at me over thin rimmed glasses as she researched the location where the ambulance had found me. I needed to get the address so that I could have a cab return me to my car.
“Synthetic weed and spices. Hmph!” She grunted, “Whoever gave this to you was not a very good friend.”
As she shook her head in disapproval her grey pony tail shifted from side to side.
“Yeah, he’s not exactly what I call a friend.” I replied avoiding eye contact. “I didn’t even know that synthetic weed existed.”
“Yes, we see this kinda thing all the time. Your reaction was actually mild.” I cringed as she licked her finger to separate some papers on her desk. “These fake drugs are causing the kids to have psychotic breaks. Sometimes the damage is permanent”, She paused and looked at me directly for the first time and said;
“You’re a lucky guy.”
As I stood there, in the ER lobby, wearing jeans so tight that I basically had a testicle in each pocket, I laughed. She called me lucky.
Waiting outside for the cab I looked down at the hospital wrist band that overlapped my trendy bracelets and thought…
So this is what luck looks like.
Was there a lesson learned from this humiliating near-death experience? Yes, two actually.
1. Drugs are NOT for me. 2. Avoidance solves nothing. Had I just braved the idea of seeing my ex or kept my ass at home, I would have saved a couple thousand bucks; and what was almost my life.