I started my Yardfest day slinging back mimosas and Coronas bright and early. The goal was simple: pace myself so I could reach my peak—both drunk and high—at precisely 7 p.m., when Natasha Bedingfield would finally grace us with her beautiful British presence. Contrary to the title of this article, I had a plan, and it only involved three substances. I’d start light: seltzers, beer, champagne. Then, after a few hours, I’d graduate to shots and smoke whatever found its way into my hands—preferably a cigarette, not a joint. For special moments (like running into that cute swimmer guy I’d been meaning to find time to go on a date with), I had a secret weapon tucked in my pocket: a special edition 10ml Pumpkin Spice Latte Double Scorpio bottle of poppers.
But, as these things tend to go, the plan fell apart almost immediately.
The club where my pregame began had only one kind of easily accessible hard alcohol: tequila. If you know anything about me, you know that’s a problem. After pounding back a tequila and Coke (the drink, not the drug… yet), I went in search of something to smoke. Not long after, I found myself holding a fourth of a joint. I’d been handed a generously rolled fresh joint. Naturally, this was worrying. It’s not that I’m scared of mixing weed and alcohol—usually, I end up at least a little crossed after a night out, but this was too soon. I could feel myself teetering toward the edge, so I tossed the joint and moved locations, from balcony to courtyard to basement and back again, in a desperate attempt to reinvigorate the vibes and stave off the green-out.
This led to more drinks, many vapes, two cigarettes (one skinny, one Marlboro Gold), a bit more weed (whoops!), and most importantly, cocaine.
Originally, the plan had been to snort a few lines of Adderall early in the morning with friends. Knowing we had to get through at least seven hours of straight drinking, this seemed like a great idea. But for some reason, it never happened. So by 4 p.m.—entering what I’d call the third quarter—I was fading. It was officially time for an upper, and a Red Bull just wouldn’t cut it.
Right on cue, as if prompted by Woody Allen making his directorial debut in my life, my friend jumped into my arms while I waited in line to get my shit rocked by a mechanical bull. She looked electrified. “I just did three lines with [REDACTED],” she said. “You need to catch up.” She was right. This was the ideal opportunity to boost my vibe. Our mighty foursome ventured outside the walls of the tightly-packed courtyard in search of a semi-private spot to inconspicuously “ski the slopes.” The bag was pulled out. Lines were chopped. Someone’s HUID was made useful. I tucked my hair behind my ear and leaned down.
Now, whenever I sniff a powder, I follow it up with a deep inhale of poppers. While it helps the drip go down smoother, it definitely does not help with adjusting to the effects. Prancing back into one of the many courtyards hosting Yardfest festivities, I found myself cruising on a new wavelength. I had no idea what time it was, or how long it had been since my first drink—the first substance. My head was reeling, but in a way that I enjoyed. Kisses were being handed out like candy, though I’m sure they tasted more like cigarettes, coke residue, and half-dissolved Mentos.
At this point, I knew I needed to recenter. The mix of cocaine and poppers had left me feeling unstoppable. My bones vibrated to the music, my limbs moved like liquid, and I felt euphoric. But also? If someone had told me to do literally anything, I would’ve done it. That level of openness—of being extremely susceptible to suggestion—is a dangerous place to be. I had the fleeting thought that someone could convince me to jump into the Charles, and though I envisioned the multitude of ways my life could suddenly flip sideways if I did so unsafely, I was also fairly confident I wouldn’t stop myself from doing it. I just didn’t care. Every single chemical in my brain and body was telling me that I was living a life free of consequence. The regular rules of life just didn’t apply to me, because here I was on an artificially induced dopamine rush at the best university in the world. If I did another line or smoked another joint, it probably wouldn’t be the hit that killed me because people like us don’t get addicted, and people like us don’t overdose.
The state of mind I’d entered allowed me to contemplate the world of drug-related consequences from a gilded pedestal. Every single warning I’d heard about coke, weed, alcohol, nicotine, or poppers suddenly became irrelevant because I was high on life and coke, and I was fine. I was better than fine! I suddenly became acutely aware of the fact that I was actively prepared to do just about any substance because I’d already made it this far, and what new danger could a bit of molly introduce into my life? Unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately, no new drugs were introduced to my waiting and open arms.
As it goes, I found myself walking through the Smith Center, doing my best to appear sober.
Seconds later, I sat, head in hands, bare-bottomed on a Smith toilet seat (yikes!!), trying to mentally isolate each of the ingredients in the cocktail of substances coursing through my overworked veins. In the back of my mind, I heard my drug-ed teacher from high school berating me—I hadn’t set intentions with my drug use, I hadn’t made sure I was consuming safely, I hadn’t prepared for the effects of mixing uppers and downers. Sure, I felt categorically good, but what was that feeling worth? Could I really justify pushing my liver to the limit for a marginally better day of listening to loud music? In truth, I felt content in my illicit decisions, even as my head pounded and I counted up the substances I’d partaken in the past few hours. Let’s tally up each sensation together:
- Alcohol. A classic vice. It was making my world seem dull and woozy. I felt giddy, but also at peace. Although I didn’t want to drink more, I was happy with my level of drunkness. I could see straight and balance if I needed to, but jokes were funnier, and people were hotter, and life was sunnier. Being drunk made me flirtier, and conversations flowed smoother—the alcohol acted as a social lubricant (and also made me post peculiar stuff on my main Instagram story).
- Nicotine. This has never, for me, done a significant amount. It’s more like satisfying a good craving. I could feel the buzz, but compared to the other drugs, it was more of an afterthought. Even so, I’d just sipped my friend’s mango vape, and I was still itching to smoke another skinny cig, so maybe that’s something.
- THC (and CBD). If you’ve ever been crossed, you know exactly how I was feeling. Honestly, the weed made me feel a touch more tired, but it was also the type of thing I felt at the back of my head, rather than the front. My body was relaxed in a more controlled way than the normal drunk loss of inhibition. Things that weren’t supposed to be funny (like almost getting hit by a tour bus on Auburn St.) became hysterical.
- Cocaine. In a sense, this had sort of sobered me up. I seemed less drunk than I previously had, but not in a bad way. I felt confident, smart, sexy, hilarious, and like I was probably the coolest person at this school. The dulling of senses that the alcohol and weed had brought me was canceled out, so I felt all of the exquisite relaxation and loss of judgment while also having the eerie sensation of being completely aware of my surroundings.
- Isobutyl Nitrite (Poppers). I’ve never quite been able to explain the heady rush of poppers. I felt it in the front of my head, right behind my eyes. My face felt flushed, but not red, and my entire body felt like I’d just left an extraordinarily stretchy session of hot yoga. I wanted to dance, laugh, and swing my friends around, all while my ears felt like they were underwater.
Strangely enough, taking five minutes on that toilet to recenter myself and catalog my symptoms helped my buzz. I left the bathroom calm, focused, and fully prepared to high-five Dean Khurana and chat with him for seven uninterrupted minutes about the weather and the delights of the Yardfest glizzies (which I did in fact do). I stopped drinking, smoking, snorting, and popping off, opting to let my current high carry me till the end of the event.
By the time I found myself screaming “I LOVE YOU” to Natasha and moshing with the crowd, I’d achieved the perfect feeling. I’d banished all worrisome thoughts and dialed in on appreciating the music with my friends. My body had responded positively to everything in my system, and I no longer felt overwhelmed. Each of the Big Five had a hand in constructing my mood, and it was goddamn beautiful. I’d felt the rain on my skin, and really, truly, released my inhibitions. I felt good, and I’d do it all over again in a heartbeat (just maybe after waiting a moment for a solid T-break).
For legal reasons, this is an entirely fictitious account, and the anonymous author has never consumed illicit substances.