Sunday, December 29, 1968
Stoney and I look at a VW van today, but it costs $1,000; I was thinking more like a funky $300-$400 van–that way, we could fix it up the way we wanted. I found my old savings passbook from Sioux City: outasight! I still have $136.14 left. We just need a few hundred yet.
If we don’t get the van, then maybe I’ll use the money to visit Big Brother in Pennsylvania.
I love Stoney, but I’m getting sick of being stoned all the time. If I’m not wired, I’m in a daze, always tired and feeling like shit. And the dope is getting scary; last week, we smoked some grass cured in embalming fluid, and I passed out.
That can’t be good for my brain cells.
Also, I don’t need to be dropping acid three and four times a week. Two weeks ago, I almost flipped out on that purple shit, and, ever since, I’ve been having flashbacks. I don’t like that at all; dropping acid and having a good time for 12 hours or so is one thing, but freaking out when I haven’t dropped anything is totally bizarre.
It’s freaky when you’re at work and start tripping for no reason.
Anyway, I’m glad I quit that stupid job–I hate that bank and those stuffy people, and I don’t give a fuck about who gets a loan for a Toyota or Ford.
John Steinbeck died about a week or so ago, and I just found out. Bummer. I kind of like The Grapes of Wrath, even though I had to read it for Mr. O’Brien’s class.
After we look at the van, Stoney drops me off at the apartment and leaves to score some mescaline for New Year’s, says he’ll be back in an hour or so.
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