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That's the kind of thought process I was dealing with. The cats were having no part of me leaving. The hate in their eyes said so. I'm sure this is exactly how those stories about people who go crazy and eat their roommate's lungs in a drug-fueled haze happen. For me, it lasted all of about 10 minutes, but I promise you, it was not a joyous 10 minutes. And that was just the part where I thought my cats had doomed me to an eternity in Hell.

For the next few hours, I was the kind of dehydrated that makes you feel like you swallowed charcoal. I was thirsty like I'd never been in my life, but also way too disoriented to walk to the kitchen to do anything about it. Although not of the "I'm in Hell" variety anymore, those weird feelings that something truly awful had already happened would just up and return every 30 minutes or so. If a single other person had been in the room with me, I probably would have been hauled off to the hospital. A quick WebMD self-evaluation the next morning left me thinking that the likely culprit of my night in Hell was something resembling a (very thankfully) mild bout of Serotonin Syndrome, which WebMD defines as "man, you really should not have mixed those two chemicals; you're probably going to die."

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This was well after the great JWH-018 ban of 2009, so I can't even be really sure what it was that I mixed with that Robitussin (or the active ingredient in Robitussin, which is dextromethorphan). Probably fucking nail polish remover. Whatever the case, the fact that I didn't swear off gas station weed THAT night is all I need to know about why I should leave it alone now.

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