A little under two years ago we brought you the story of a Redditor who traveled to Mexico to kill himself, only to change his mind after several rounds of cocaine and hookers; a feel-good Disney Channel movie in the making.
“But how MANY hookers did he bang? How MUCH blow did he blow?” you ask, not afraid of throwing out the hard-hitting questions that really matter, “Did he get an STD afterwards, or at least a nosebleed?” Well lucky for you, the very same guy (because it wouldn’t make sense if it was a different guy, duh) sent Post Grad Problems a detailed timeline of what went down while he was in Mexico. You can read the entire, unedited thing by clicking HERE, or you can stick with me and I’ll give you the highlights. The beginning is horrendously depressing, which should come as no surprise since the story begins with all the bad things that happened in his life to make him want to commit suicide.
After arriving in Mexico, Redditor plzsendhalp bought a bottle of pentobarbital, a lethal drug that only costs $50 in Mexico (fun!). Grabbing a cab back to his hotel, he stares at the bottle for “the better part of the day” trying to work up the courage to take it, only to wind up back at the bars in order to find some liquid courage:
Order one Corona. Bartender brings an ice bucket with two. $2.50. Buy a margarita. Two, $3.00. Feeling a bit tipsy now. Not used to drinking much. Kind of a pussy back then.
Suddenly a hand is on my forehead, yanking me back. For one instant I think I’m about to get my throat cut by a cartel enforcer. Instead, bartender stuffs spout of tequila bottle in my mouth and pours it straight down my throat. Flail arms. Cough and sputter. “That’ll be $5.”(via)
Hammered, plzsendhalp flags down a cab to take him back to his hotel, but when the driver asks if he’d be interested in hookers or blow (“chicas or llello”), he caves in for the cocaine. “Why the hell not? No reason to worry about health.”
Cabbie makes a call on his cell, then drives me through even darker and creepier Tijuana streets. Pull up to a tenement. Man steps out of a dark alley and speaks to the driver in Spanish. Great place to get robbed and thrown into a gutter with a knife in my kidney.
Driver asks how much I want. Never bought drugs before. Never had a puff of weed. No idea how coke is sold. I ask for a small amount. Eventually work it out to a gram.(via)
Back at his hotel, he agonizes over whether or not to snort the coke “for about 20 minutes” and almost pussies out, until…
SNORT! Expected pain, felt cold and numb. Horrible taste in back of throat. Drip almost triggers a gag reflex. This is it? This is what’s so great about coke? I don’t feel anything. Mind speeds up. Heart races. Pacing. Sweating.
Anhedonia replaced with pure ecstasy. Complete shock. Forgot what bliss felt like until that moment. Take couple more lines.(via)
Feeling “better,” he Googles what the best brothel in Tijuana is and goes to Adelita Bar:
Like a strip club with raised platform and poles, only no ladies on the platform. Instead, about 40 women chasing after men. Feel like a hot chick at a club getting pinched and spanked.
…Of the 40 women 20 are older and less appealing. 15 are okay to good. 5 are worth dragging my cock through a mile of broken glass just to be the last guy in line to fuck them.
Approach the hottest of the 5. Voice cracking, ask if she wants to go upstairs. Sí. $60.
Cut across to “hotel”, pay $10 for 20 minutes in a tiny cubicle with a bed.
Watch her undress. Motioned over. Fun begins. Mind-blowing. Maybe worth living another few days—just for the coke and women.
Return to hotel, mildly ashamed and embarrassed.(via)
He wakes up at around 2:00 the next day, hits up the cab driver from the day before for more coke, then hires the “cutest girl in the roster” from a Tijuana escort agency run by a guy on the US side of the border. The next day, same thing – except this time he asks for two girls.
Everything is fine and dandy, until the hotel manager calls him down to the lobby where his two escorts are waiting:
Find the manager and my escorts (dressed in thigh high hooker boots and not a whole lot else) in the lobby. Told it’s a fire hazard to bring this many women up to my room.
Jump in cab with girls. Taken to “chica friendly” hotel next to Hong Kong Club. Fun times.
Decide to move over to the Hong Kong Club. Get a suite for less than $100 a night with a Jacuzzi tub and stripper pole. Bring a couple girls up from the Hong Kong Club. Offer them coke. Snort fat rails off thighs, ass, and tits.(via)
It wasn’t until his sister emailed him saying that she missed him and wanted him to come home that he finally says he had a “break down” and started to cry. He buys a ticket back home, but gets stopped at the border as his name’s been flagged – after a brief interview with a San Diego cop, he walks back into the US and hits up a Jack ‘n the Box before going BACK into Mexico to for one last night with hookers:
Spend one more night in my hotel. Bring up another pair of girls. Pay extra to watch them play with each other.
Next day, dump a bottle of antiemetics (originally bought to prevent vomiting pentobarbital), replace with Percs. Pull label off pentobarbital bottle, place it next to shampoo, hoping it looks like cologne or something if scanned.
Back to checkpoint with drugs this time. New guard runs my ID. Name no longer flagged. Get through the border with drugs.
Trolley and bus back to SD airport. Hand drug bag to sweet lady at counter to be loaded in baggage compartment.
Fly home. Pay outrageous parking fee for car.(via)
After six years of therapy, antidepressants and “ups and downs,” he picks up exercising and becomes “obsessed with adventure.” He does note, however, that he rode a motorcycle from Maryland to Tijuana three years after his initial trip and spent a night with “a couple chicas for old time’s sake.” As for what he’s doing now, he says he’s doing “the 9-5 career thing” and pretending “to be just another normal member of society.”