Woodford absinthe is the best. You boil a fistful of shrooms, dump the slimy afterbirth into a bowl filled with Jager, and each shot you dip out takes you a little closer to Xanadu.

Last night I was miner during the gold rush, and after cashing out my haul, I ended back at Mr. Li’s Opium den and brothel. I settled down on my mat, and while the Celestials huffed and puffed, I flew off to the Promised Land.

Doing psychedelics in a dream is like Inception without all the gay subtext. You don’t just turn in traffic to see the guy in the next car looking at you. You see his life in a shitty Middle-school film strip.

In my Brave New World, Trump lost, but he realized his brand was broken, and he did what no one has done in over two centuries. He refused to leave.

And it worked. . . sort of.

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