Logo Logo The top.

The banner.  Yeah.

Stay informed, man.


Fuck Scott Walker
















Red Light District


Facebook Idiot of the Week

Blog Moron of the Week

YouTube Fuckhead of the Week

Myspace Loser of the Week

Livejournal Moron of the Week



FAQ Contact

E-Mail Hate Mail!

Best viewed in 1280x1024

The Daily Raider is brought to you by the Project for an Unamerican Century and the Ronnie Gardocki Beard Preservation Society. The Daily Raider accepts donations, but we will only use them for liquor, cocaine and South American prostitutes.


The DXM Hangover

by Doom

How Stalin got his Politburo back

Bad voodoo!

On Saturday the 9th, I made the decision to take DXM despite the myriad warnings on the Internet about the conflict created between DXM and some other drug I'm taking for actual medical reasons. Not to mention I took 40 mg of the latter, twice my prescribed amount, and I was incredibly drunk. Why? Well, I'm not quite sure (not about the drinking part; I was drinking because drinking is awesome). It's either I wanted to have a good time with my buddy Nixon or I wanted to commit suicide. Or something macabre in between. Point is, I didn't die. If I did, you can be fairly certain you would not be reading this article right now, nor would I be writing this statement right now (self-reflexive writing, woooooooooooo). The Saturday night was pretty great. I got to hang out with friend/intermittent writer Nixon for like the fourth time this year, saw a shitty movie whilst wasted and then walked around Wauwatosa (walking is fucking killer on DXM), the whitey suburb not far from where I live. But once I went back home and slept, it all went downhill. I documented the DXM hangover/afterglow phenomenon in my prior article on DXM, but this was more than anything I've experienced before. For a solid couple of days, I believed I was going to die. Good times. Why shouldn't I have a flip attitude? I'm not dead now.

The high was a good trip, seeing Pineapple Express with Nixon and hanging out and writing shit and everything else. It should be noted I drank a shitload of wine before we set off to see some godawful movie. And when I stole my DXM, I was still fucking hammered, making it surprising I went through with the theft without getting my cracker ass caught. I guess I'm just that good or store security people are that fucking dumb (somewhere in between, I'm guessing). I should've known shit would be fucked when I went into a bathroom stall to quaff the Delsym and it was the most horrific sight ever, just shit everywhere on the toilet. I still don't know whether I hallucinated the debacle or not; nonetheless, it had an effect on me. My consciousness started to get fucked during the movie, and I had the occasional worry about the drug interactions in my system, so I told Nixon to punch me if I looked like I was dying Alhough I sorta went into a half-conscious state occasionally during the movie, I didn't actually hit the death or near-death state. The time after the film was good as well, hanging out at the library until the pigs told us to stop loitering. So fucking what about the law? Pigs should let enlightened youngsters hang out at the library afterhours. With the requisite writing and drunken phone calls out of the way, the night ended with me gracefully falling into bed and going to sleep. How I got there, who the fuck knows.

Waking up was difficult. I felt like I was in a different world. Thinking was impossible. My body hurt. Attempts to eat or drink didn't happen due to strong aversion to both. It's difficult to describe. Suffice it to say, I did next to nothing for a few days and became utterly convinced I was in the process of dying. It was very strange to have to approach the possibility of impending death. That was another reason I did little of anything; being near death instilled incredible paranoia. As an atheist, there's nothing to make me feel better about taking a dirt nap other than "finally all those annoying pricks will no longer be able to bother you ever again" and "no longer are you a burden on society, nor do any burdens on you exist". Paralysis due to fear of death is just about the worst feeling one can have, even if it's couched in the illogic of drinking too much cough medicine will kill you after a couple of days of being in your system.

The physical effects were intense too. No matter how many times I showered I never felt sufficiently "clean". Skin felt tetchy and weird. I was...sweatier than Hitler's furrowed mustache in an Argentinean sauna with Juan Peron, discussing international trade over a bottle of cooled Pinot Macaca Vichy France 1943 while Evita and Hermann Goering are outside painting each others' toenails after a game of tennis. That joke bounced around my head and with it being so complex and amusing I knew my old self was seeping back into my personality. I was saved! Unfortunately, this proved to be short-lived. Once I got back from Wal-Mart, I was on my game for a little while, but then I slipped back into pathetic malaise of Jabberjawing (teeth clattering is a common effect of DXM, and during this hangover it lasted a pretty fucking long time) and sweating. It sucked, which is actually an understatement, since there are no words in the English language to precisely describe the feelings the horrible hangover brought me. Bad trip doesn't even begin to describe it.

This went on for about a week, a hellish week of paralysis and confusion. Needless to say, it soured me on DXM. DXM went from being the great savior, the bringer of meaning, the better than alcohol, to the Devil. (My positive perception of the Christian Satan notwithstanding.) Why? Why did dex betray me so? Well, it must be known cough syrup can go both ways, like a college girl who experiments for the sake of attention. Just like you can get too fucking drunk and do something stupid, occasionally DXM will betray you and cause massive nausea or fuck up your brain for a while. I'm surprised it took me this long to encounter it. I know Commando's had a few of these times, as I've been witness to some of them (though mostly he just threw up, no idea on the aftereffects he experienced). Thus, blaming DXM is counterproductive when, really, no one is at fault. Sometimes shit just happens. Possibly blame yourself for going against the grain of taking DXM (don't drink beforehand, don't do while other drugs are in your system), but other than that...

For those who undergo a similar experience, I have a few suggestions. Sleep a lot. Take sleeping pills. The more you sleep, the better you'll feel, as you can't feel existential pain in slumber, except in nightmares, and only fags care about nightmares. Drinking might be good as it will take your mind away from the DXM, but a combined hangover might fuck you up even worse. Above all else, though, do not interact with others. It will lead you to take regrettable actions. You may become obstinate or nostalgic, which can alienate comrades and resuscitate dead relationships that are dead for a reason. People won't understand where you're coming from. In my case I contacted some people I should not have and now I gotta deal with stupid shit my death-obsessed brain exported. This is universal advice, to control yourself and your emotions and keep from taking undue action, but it should be stressed again. I'm still not sure how I got out of the hangover phase; my mind is still a little foggy, so perhaps it's not done yet. It's a mercurial thing.

Will I drink the syrup at a later date despite its conflict with drugs I've been prescribed? I'd like to say no, but I know I'm a recidivist at heart and at some later date when I'm bored I'll have forgotten my hellish experience and think "hey, DXM sounds like a good idea!". The same goes for whenever I stop drinking for a while; inevitably there is the backslide. Beautiful in its tragedy, really. But what am I but a slave to my own desires? I will never stop wanting to distort reality, because reality sucks and won't ever live up to my high expectations. That's why I think people do DXM or other substances: either they're too weak to handle reality, or they hate reality so much they'd rather endanger their life and get fucked up. I'd rather take the edge off my shitty life than make the most of it. Lack of substance is far more damaging than the substances themselves. Well, except for beer. Fuck beer.