I feel nothing. Ordinarily, I would welcome a respite from anxious and petty thoughts on a tropical getaway. But 20 minutes ago, I downed a plastic cup of green sludge holding a potent 3.5 grams of psilocybin, commonly known as “magic mushrooms.” My mission is to feel a lot. Maybe even everything. It doesn’t help that a millennial marketing executive nearby is heaving with sobs, while an attorney from Philadelphia across from me mumbles in Latin like the old priest in The Exorcist.
Clearly, they’re tripping. I’m not even stumbling.
