One half pound of psilocybin mushrooms. Three and a half shots of tequila. One half loaded .44 magnum revolver.
You took the mushrooms between swigs from the bottle. And when there were three of everything, and everything was the same, perfect, color and your legs didn't work, you thumped your head down on your table, put the gun to your left ear and pulled the trigger.
And woke up yesterday. Only, there was no proof it was yesterday. You're bad with days, and, sometimes, with facts, too.
But you tried the bank robbery again. Shot yourself in the foot, adjusting your pants with the gun in your waistband. Went to the hospital. Got released. Got wasted on hallucinogens and Mexican booze and just before loosing consciousness, head on your table, you tried again.
And woke up yesterday, again. Only now, the hole in your foot was gone, as were the pain pills, and there were still only three bullets in the chamber.
And then, horrified, you noticed it: you were stone sober. And for the first time in the long, stuttering, line of your sobriety, you smiled.
* this is about withdrawl. (ryan) ?