Why not just do drugs...

If there is substances out there that can make you feel complete happiness, pure bliss, the ultimate amount of pleasure.
What is the point in doing anything else?

 

agreed.

 

Personally, I don't because I don't consider that happiness, bliss or pleasure to be real. Whatever reality it is that I am trying to escape, I would rather face it head on. I know people who do indeed do drugs, though. That's cool.

 

I don't believe such a substance exists. And I am a drug user.

 

Personally, I've spent nearly two decades in the sober world, sober reality.. and its horribly boring.

 

I am a drug user and I don't believe such a thing exists. There must be balance. Symmetry screams for attention. Can't go up without going down. Cannot flood a neurotransmitter without some sort of payback. If everything was always pure pleasure/Heaven, wouldn't it get boring? How would we recognize it? Doesn't pain help us to appreciate pleasure? Doesn't sadness help us appreciate the good times even more?

 

no one will feel happy from substance abuse...no matter how good it is.. there will always be a vague echoe saying that what you are doing is wrong.

 

This is true.


People should be able to do whatever they want, but 24/7 bliss would soon just become reality and the appeal would wear off. Then what? You can't go any higher after that. There's only down.

 

well there are a lot of things that you would have to do to be able to sustain that kind of lifestyle like eating and finding money for more drugs unless you make it yourself.

I believe the drug world is real but it has it's purpose just like the "real" world does.

 

Worst case situation...
If someone you loves dies, you cannot escape the grief process. You could numb the pain when it first hits with your medicine of choice, but you come down and your love is still gone. Sooner or later you have to deal with it when your head is clear.
You never go back to the way things were, but there's no pill on this earth that can heal you and take you through the stages of recovery.

As for happiness, no one, not even on pills can sustain the "Up".

I studied a modified form of yoga called the Relaxation Response. It is not a way to get around the low spots in life, but it helps me blow off stress real well and I can find a state of balance and peace that is sustainable for a much longer time.

 

I dont believe drug-use can acheieve pure bliss happiness. I dont think its real either, it creates an illusion of fake reality. I rather live in the real world and achieve peace with it like that, at best its good to stay postive within the mind.

 

The drug youre referring to is called love. Find it, share it, enjoy it


There is no substance that can replace it

 

Andrenalin and Endorphins are drugs too, just ones our own body administers.

And we end up doing a lot of crazy stuff to get high with them.


Dont give sugar to kids or they'll end up driving you crazy.


Not doing drugs also includes most foods.


"I dont need drugs to have a good time" - Often I need drugs to bear the type of person that says that

 

Let's assume you had a drug that put you in a state of pure happiness or bliss and let's also assume that a vast majority of people took said drug, because isn't that what most people want.
Then what? What would motivate anyone to do anything? Sure you would be motivated by things like hunger and such, or would you?
I guess what I'm trying to say is alot of things happen because people aren't happy, and other then survive why do anything and if you think about it, if you were in that state what would happen first? You die because your in a state of bliss and don't really care if you eat or not or the drug wears off and your not happy so your motivated to do something to get more of the drug.
So the way I see it you can't do it.

 

I Just enjoyed a smooth bowl...so I'm getting a kick out of these replies. :smoking:

 

If your constantly high, it'll become your reallity. You won't know your happy unless you have sadness. You also have to eat, sleep, and get money for more drugs.

 

I agree with those who say it cannot be done. I think the saddest, crustiest drug addicts are the ones trying desperately to achieve this until it becomes just trying to maintain, not even happiness, but normalcy and freedom from pain. You see how well it works out for them.
Even Howard Hughes, a rich man who wanted for nothing, and could afford to do nothing but drugs to keep him in a state of euphoria all day, went from this:


to this:


Tell me, does this man look blissful, happy or content?

 

... he looks really really sleepy.

 

I'm more than a drug user, I'm a drug enthusiast, a drug lover, drugs are one of my hobbies.

And I think the premise of this thread is FUCKING stupid.

 

And gross and emaciated and tortured.

Found this on a message board where they were discussing his condition in his final days after he became a recluse (apparently, I was wrong- it wasn't morphine, but codeine that he was addicted to, but it did start with morphine):

"From the book 'Citizen Hughes'

There were dangers everywhere, and he was so vulnerable. The world was dealing with a facade. The real Howard Hughes lay hidden in a self-made prison, a naked old man in terrible pain and terminal terror, living like an inmate in the back ward of a mental institution, looking like a corpse laid out on a slab in the city morgue.
He was a figure of gothic horror, something ready for or just risen from the grave. Emaciated, practically skeletal with only 120 pounds stretched out over his six-foot-four-inch frame, and hardly a speck of colour about him anywhere, not even his lips, he seemed not merely dead but already in decay. Only the long grey hair that trailed half way down his back, the thin scraggly beard that reached midway onto his sunken chest, and the hideously long nails that extended several inches in grotesque yellowed corkscrews from his fingers and toes seemed to be growing, still showing signs of life. That, and his eyes. Sometimes they looked dead, blank. But other times they gleamed from their deep sunk sockets with surprising, almost frightening intensity, fixed in a hard, searching, penetrating stair. Often, however, they seemed to stare in, not out.
Hughes was in pain. Physical pain. Mental pain. Deep, unrelenting pain. Many of his teeth were rotting black stumps, some just dangling loose from his puffy, whitened, pus-filled gums. A tumor was beginning to emerge from the side of his head, a reddened lump protruding through the sparse strands of gray hair. He had bedsores festering all down his back, some so severe that eventually one shoulder blade-the bare bone-would poke through his parchment like skin. And then there were the needle marks. The telltale tracks ran the full length of both his thin arms, scarred his thighs, and clustered horribly around his groin.
Howard Hughes was an addict. A billionaire junkie. He was shooting up massive amounts if codeine, routinely "skin-popping" more than twenty grains daily, sometimes three or four times that much, regularly taking doses thought lethal. He had been hooked for two decades, ever since a 1946 plane crash, when his doctor prescribed morphine to ease the pain of what everyone thought would be his final hours. As he instead recovered, the doctors substituted codeine, and through the years Hughes demanded even-larger doses, finally setting up a byzantine illegal supply operation, getting prescriptions filled under assumed names at various Los Angeles drug stores.
Often now he would wake in the terrors of withdrawal and begin his day by reaching down to the black metal box by his bedside where he kept his stash and his unsterilized hypodermic needle. Immediately mixing a fix, he would dissolve several white tablets in his pure bottled Poland Spring water, then jab the spike into his wasted body. Sometimes he prolonged the ritual by "double-pumping," injecting half the white fluid, then drawing it back up into the syringe with his blood, letting the needle dangle for a moment before he shot the full load back into his system. Then he would relax, and in the first warm flush of relief and satisfaction now and then softly sing a little jingle to himself, a little scat bebop routine he remembered from the old days. "Hey-bop-a-ree-bop. Hey-bop-a-ree-bop." And finally maybe a quiet chuckle.
There were other drugs, and the codeine was not the worst of them. Hughes was also gobbling massive quantities of tranquilizers, up to two hundred milligrams of Valium and Librium at a single shot, ten times the normal dose. Blue bombers. And when he wasn't shooting codeine, he was swallowing fistfuls of Empirin #4, a prescription compound containing codeine, aspirin, caffeine, and a synthetic pain-killer called phenacetin. It was not the codeine but the phenacetin that was doing the real damage, ravaging his already shrunken kidneys. Eventually it would kill him."

Sound good? :ack2: