When I was sixteen, I once downed a whole bottle of a certain cough-medicine, because I had heard you could get "a really nice stone, man".
It was true. I spent the whole day blissfully cocooned in warm, fuzzy cotton-wool.
It contained morphine, of course, and ever since, I've had this inclination to experience it again.
I've recently had the most extreme pain imaginable, owing to two abscessed front teeth, one on top, one on the bottom, both at the same time. Both were root-canalled on the same appointment, without anaesthetic.
My very odd dentist generously prescribed me the strongest painkillers he could, and advised me to use with caution.
Well. Owing to the degree of pain, I failed, entirely, to experience any pleasure from the drug. All there was, was the agony, and as far as I could tell, the drug didn't do much to block it, but instead, went some way towards rendering me unable to care about it.
Until today. Suddenly, the pain receded into the manageable zone, and finally I was left with the morphine stone. Which I found (and find) very interesting...
I hate it!
I feel uncoordinated and bleary. Shaky and ill-at-ease. Dopey and detached.
No sign, at all, of the safe and cosy warmth I remembered from my teenage years.
And so I have this to observe:
Morphine is wonderful, when your life is so horrible that it makes you feel blissful.
And it is horrible, when your life is actually blissful.