I found this in my archives. I apparently wrote it in July of 2008, before any of the class stuff started. In hindsight it's pretty interesting to me, and also frightening (for reasons that later became clear):

July 25, 2008

I have a special place.

A sanctuary, really; dark velvet
shadows so deep that almost no
worries or concerns can penetrate
down into it. And it’s mine, and
no one else’s.

The Opium Den in my parent’s basement has grown so beyond what it was originally intended to be – it’s fulfilled its purpose in that regard in marvelous fashion, but it’s much more. It’s a culture, not merely a place- a state of mind and being embodied by a presence that has a life of its own and operates in complete and total congruence with my own consciousness.

The feeling I have when there is one of safety; imperviousness, really. I’m somewhere that no one else will ever truly understand, not even Andrew, who comes closer than anyone else. And I’ve made it secure to the point of fanaticism, with measures for protection and discretion that when taken out of context seem absolutely ludicrous and even a little . . . insane.

Screaming brains and Heathers, terrifying talking bunnies and a million other bits and pieces to frighten you. Drunken angels, sirenes and intoxicatingly beautiful female voices mesmerizing. Absinthe and rotgut, Buddha and bongs. The unceasing hum of ten trillion living particles; stardust. Nag Champa swirls and eddies amid the black, black light that only illuminates what I want it to, and shuts out everything and everyone else. This is my realm, and it’s become an obsession and . . . a curse?

Insanity. No one at the wheel insanity. A dusty old room in my parent’s -my parent’s- basement. My life hundreds of miles away across three states, yet here I come to escape it for a while. How can I even begin to justify what I am doing? Are there truly any valid excuses – for excuses they must be, if anything – for this kind of unabashed hedonism and nihilism? No. So instead of confronting the situation with empty hands, weaponless, we do nothing, and return to bathe in the smoke and the haze of the room in my parent’s basement.