TIFU by eating 7g of mushrooms and peeing on the new couch.

Throw-away account. This story happened six years ago, so it’s not exactly today.

In January 2020, right before all the lockdowns started rolling out, I talked to one of my friends about doing mushrooms together. He was on board, I was on board, and we were going to go to another dimension—the Nexus void, if you will.

So I talked to another friend who always seemed to have a good connection for mushrooms. I bought 7 grams, enough to put each of us on another planet.
About the time the delivery came, the lockdowns started rolling out.

They said “two weeks to flatten the curve,” so I figured, hey, we’ll be fine. I’ll wait a couple of weeks, he can come over, we’ll do these mushrooms together, and we’ll have a great time having a nice out-of-body—or out-of-dimension—experience.

But we all know it wasn’t two weeks to flatten the curve.

It was much, much longer.

Eventually, I started to fear that if I didn’t use these mushrooms, I’d forget I had them in storage and they’d go to waste. So one evening I decided, I’m going to do some mushrooms, and my wife can hang out and babysit me.

So, like any responsible psychedelic user, I ground up all 7 grams, mixed them into some orange juice, and slurped it all down.

My wife and I descended into the basement, where we had a nice home theater system and some plush, brand-new couches to melt into. It was going to be a great night.

In 2020, my daughter was 3-1/2 years old. She was upstairs on the second floor of the house while my wife and I were in the basement watching an animated series. I think it was Duncan Trussell’s The Midnight Gospel on Netflix.

The trip started escalating, and I was beginning to melt into another dimension.

Around that time, my daughter called from upstairs. She was scared because she’d gone into our bedroom and nobody was there, so my wife ran upstairs and left me alone in the basement.

Not a big deal. I’d tripped before. I’d flown solo before. I could navigate this just fine.

That’s when things really started to get wild.

I looked around the basement, and it no longer seemed like a place I was familiar with. I couldn’t see the stairs. Everything seemed gray and smooth, like I was sitting inside a UFO.

My smallest dog, about 25 pounds, was downstairs standing guard, making sure I didn’t completely lose myself to this trip. He was lying on the floor, so I pulled myself off the couch and laid down next to him.
As I watched him, he started to look like the dog version of a really old man. Like some sort of elderly dog-human melting hybrid.

I just laid there staring at him.

And he stared right back into my eyes as I descended further into madness. I didn’t say anything and neither did he.

Eventually, he grew bored of my distant staring, got up, and went upstairs.

I was alone.

Again.

I figured it was time to get comfortable and live out the rest of this trip underneath my crocheted blanket. So I climbed back onto the couch, grabbed my blanket, and continued watching television while hiding underneath it, trying not to get too scared by the visuals.

Time seemed to stretch forever. I couldn’t keep track of what was happening. I was just falling, climbing, and watching the visuals dance around me as the animated show on the television sent me further into chaos.

While sitting on our nice, plush, brand-new couch, I suddenly felt like I was a balloon ready to burst.
So I began squeezing my abdominal muscles, trying to stop myself from floating away.

Then a warm sensation engulfed my midsection.

I didn’t fully understand what was happening.

I took comfort in the warmth that had now arrived.

Yes.

I had urinated all over our brand-new couch.

And I proceeded to just sit there contently.

After what felt like forever, I think I started to doze off, watching the shadows in the room dance while the television serenaded me into an entirely different plane of consciousness.

Eventually, I woke up feeling wetness across my entire upper body. I felt like I was sweating after a long workout.

I turned my head and could see the television. The trip was very clearly still in full effect.

That’s when I realized something.

I was lying across the couch with my face nestled into the exact seat cushion I had previously soaked with urine.

I pushed myself off the couch and attempted to regain some level of composure.

At this point, my trousers were wet.

My face was soaked in urine.

And I needed to take care of this mess one way or another.

So I climbed the basement stairs, which felt like an insurmountable task. Step after step, I pulled myself closer to the ground floor.

When I finally reached the landing, I looked around and barely recognized my surroundings. Everything was similar to what I knew, but it had this strange sheen to it, like the entire house had been soaked in oil—the rainbow effect you see when oil and water mix on the pavement in a parking lot.

I stiff-legged shuffled toward the bathroom.

I needed a towel.
I needed to wash off.
But first, I needed to pee again.

So I positioned myself in front of the toilet, took aim, and began to pee.

That’s when I realized:

I had not removed my pants.

I was standing directly in front of the toilet, pissing my pants.

Again.

Unbelievable.

How much more urine could I possibly be soaked in?
I took off my pants, left them in a crumpled heap on the bathroom floor, got into the shower, turned on the water, and sat down in the basin while the water rushed over my body.

And I can tell you, boys and girls, the sensation was incredible.

I wish I could say I looked down and watched yellow water streaming off my body and disappearing down the drain, but I don’t remember that much of it, if I’m being honest.

I tried to lather myself with soap, repeatedly stinging my eyes because I had absolutely no coordination or concern for the proper application of shampoo and body wash.

I sat there in the tub, staring at the water raining down on me, hoping my eyes would eventually clear enough that I could get up, towel myself off, and deal with the urine-soaked couch before my wife discovered what had happened.

After drying myself off, I grabbed a fresh towel and headed back downstairs.

Let me tell you:

Trying to soak your own urine out of a plush, brand-new couch with a towel is a foolhardy task for a man stumbling around in the Nexus.

After doing what I felt was a semi-decent job, I grabbed a fan and positioned it face-down over the affected portion of the couch, hoping it would dry everything out.

Then I waited.

And waited.

Years passed.

Decades.

Eventually, the visuals began subsiding.

It was probably four or five o’clock in the morning by then, and this ordeal had started around 8:30 PM.

Around 6 AM, I checked the couch.

It seemed mostly dry.

I thought to myself, This is going to be okay.
I emerged from the basement, collected my urine-soaked clothes from the bathroom floor, stuffed them into a grocery bag, and threw them away.

Then I went downstairs armed with air freshener.

I freshened the room.
I sprayed the couch with Febreze.
The coast seemed clear.

I went upstairs, sat in my recliner, and managed to get a short nap before my wife came downstairs around 8 AM.

She asked how the trip went.

I told her it was fine.
Nothing out of the ordinary.

Later, I went downstairs, took the fan off the couch, got down on my hands and knees, and gave the seat cushion a nice big sniff.

Febreze.

Mostly.

Maybe the aerosol air freshener had chemically burned my nasal passages enough that I couldn’t smell properly anymore, but there was still just the faintest hint of urine underneath the overwhelming fragrance.

So I went back upstairs, grabbed more air freshener, and sprayed the couch again.

My wife started asking what was going on.

And I did what anybody in my position would do.
I knew I had to be honest.

I told her:

“I think the dog peed on the couch last night.”

She was upset because this particular dog had a history of urinating on things around the house and ruining them.

He’d peed on internet routers.
He’d peed on other dogs in public.
He’s peed in our other dog’s food bowl .
He’d ruined new rugs and carpets.

Apparently, we were just going to have to chalk up the urine smell on the couch as yet another victim of our dog.

I thought to myself:
This is going to be okay.

Later that day, I grabbed our Bissell Little Green Machine, took it downstairs, and started extracting the remaining urine from the couch.

Unfortunately, the couch doesn’t have removable cushions. They’re built in because it’s a reclining couch.

So I very meticulously used the Green Machine to suck as much of my urine as humanly possible out of the upholstery.

I was careful not to scold the dog.

After all, that old, melting dog-man had watched over me during my trip.

But I do have to blame him a little bit.

Because if he had stuck around downstairs and continued doing his job, maybe I wouldn’t have pissed all over the couch in the first place.

I still apologize to my dog to this day for the night I blamed him for peeing on the couch.

But hey, what can you do?
It was COVID.
We were on lockdown.
Apparently all I had to drink was bottled water, so of course my bladder was full.

I still take care of that dog to this day. He’s a great companion, a great wingman, and I’ll always appreciate him for taking a little bit of the heat for me that night.

Even though, six years later, my wife still doesn’t know the truth:
The dog never peed on the couch.
I did

TL;DR : I did too much mushrooms and peed all over our new couch. Blamed the dog, got away with it.