MXPr Report (100 mg 2-Oxo-3'-methoxy-PCPr)
Disclaimer
This article is for educational purposes only. It does not in any way detract from the handling of the substances whose effects it describes.
And it certainly does not encourage their use.
What’s going on?
MXPr, methoxpropamine, is a relatively recently discovered psychoactive anesthetic dissociative from the class of arylcyclohexylamines. When administered, it reportedly produces effects similar to ketamine, or phencyclidine.
Arylcyclohexylamines that are structurally similar to MXPr include, for example, methoxetamine (MXE) and methoxmethamine (MXM).
MXPr is believed to have been first synthesized in Denmark sometime around 2019. By the end of the aforementioned year, the substance had already spread globally to eshops specialising in legal psychotropic substances (e.g. https://chemicalplanet.net/). MXPr is thus an archetypal example of a so-called designer drug — it was developed to produce effects similar to other illicit substances, while at the same time ensuring that its distribution does not contravene global drug legislation.
Circumstances of intoxication & curious eventualities happening during it
On March 5, 2021, at nine o’clock and fifty-ninth minute, I ingested 50 milligrams of the substance MXPr intranasally at one time and another 50 milligrams sublingually immediately thereafter. I took them in my car parked on the grassland on the bank of the Little Danube, near the “Hať” reservoir, a short distance from the village of Nová Dedinka.
At the time, my human female friend (for the sake of the blog, I will name her with the letter system “XX” for the sake of privacy-extremism) was there with me, who at the same time intoxicated herself with 20 milligrams of the substance 4-HO-MET. There was an extremely strong gusty wind blowing outside, but despite such circumstances, XX and I planned to get out of the car and walk around the neighborhood once the first effects of intoxication set in.
About a minute into the administration, I began to dissociate. It was similar to my consciousness beginning to completely shut down, unable to decode external sensations but perceiving them with my senses in a completely sober manner. It was similar as if some of my algorithms were working absolutely standard, but there were no other algorithms involved in their operation, which at other times were involved. It was a state of very strong algorithmic partiality. As if my old self was running on inertia.
Talking was not a problem, but I could not identify exactly where the words I was saying were coming from and according to what mental structures I was consciously choosing them.
I announced the onset of the effects to XX and based on that we decided to get dressed, leave the car parked in the spot and go out. At this point, the whole thing felt like an incredibly difficult collaboration — my head was spinning in very abstract cycles. It was a spinning very similar to what many people know just from marijuana intoxication, only this spinning was compounded by the fact that my consciousness and body interacted with each other in an absolutely minimal way. By the time I remembered how to perform a particular physical movement, I had forgotten why I was actually doing it and what I wanted to do next. Somehow, though, after a few chaotic cycles of repetitive work, I managed to put on my jacket, sling my backpack on my back, grab my car keys, and open the door.
Getting out of the car itself was extremely strange, and so far the sober XX has handled it to a tee compared to me. Physically, I didn’t feel myself standing up at all — my transfer in space was perceived only by sight, as if it were a transfer in space in virtual reality. Because of this, I wondered if it would accidentally be dangerous to walk around in such a state, but after taking about three more steps without falling, my confidence returned.
My body was functioning, even though it was far from being controlled by the “I” that I had always thought was the one in control.
All reality was just visually projected around me. But for reasons unknown, I still had enough feeling in my hands that I was able to slam the car door with the right intensity, lock it with the remote control key, and shove it into the backpack I had slung on my back. I had to check that I actually had it on my back, because I couldn’t feel it there at all. I put on my gloves and hat, as despite the lack of feeling cold, I remembered that the wind there was really uncompromising.
XX and I started walking towards the populated area of the Nová Dedinka and I exchanged a few words with her. I spoke only of being taken aback by the almost instantaneous come-up of the drug, but I soon stopped speaking because I was absolutely baffled by the fact that I had no control over the content of my words and was only producing them in some strange way through my physical body by means of the uncontrollable contractions of my vocal cords.
Contact with XX was still very pleasurable for me despite my reduced sensitivity.
We took extra care when crossing Route 1065 on foot. My visual reality was not yet distorted in any way, but my field of vision was somehow vignetted, spinning, and consequently making it difficult to focus on one particular point. And on the other hand, if I focused on one particular point, I had great difficulty seeing everything else that was around.
I began to doubt that what I was experiencing was real. I came to suspect that I was lucidly dreaming, and it was this thought that kept cycling in my head, mixed with the sober realization that I was under the influence of a psychotropic substance. And if by chance someone who was intoxicated by traditional psychedelics found the reality “dreamy”, they should know that in the case of MXPr the dreaminess is taken to a whole different level. After only ten minutes or so of intoxication, experiencing an MXPr trip literally met all the aspects of experiencing the classic REM phase of sleep.
My vision was very blurry and I had trouble decoding the objects around me, including the XX visual itself.
Once we had crossed the dirt road beyond the 1065 two-lane road, I grabbed XX’s arm for stability, as I noticed that my walk no longer remotely resembled that of a sober person. It was a ketamine-walk, pure and simple, that people record and post to have fun on.
Shortly after my own walking self-criticism, I was seized with mild paranoia and had the urge to check if my car keys were in my backpack because I had no recollection of what I had done with them after locking the car. Fortunately, I found them on the spot and was delighted. It was enough to reassure me of my current competence.
I absolutely did not recognize XX visually anymore. All I could do was name it and keep in mind that I could feel safe around it. Her eyes had been figuratively altered to the point where they looked like nothing more than black dots embedded in a blur of skin color, which I duly commented on with the words:
“You have such beautiful, tiny eyes!”
And I don’t even know why I felt the need to say something like that.
She clearly didn’t understand this observation of mine, XX, and even before she made her astonishment known with a question about why I thought her eyes were ‘tiny’, I realised how strange that must have sounded. Oddly enough, I managed to explain that I see them as “tiny” because of the ongoing visual distortions.
(At least, I think I did, then.)
It occurred to me to look at my reflection on my cell phone, because I wanted to see my morphed visual structures while checking my nostrils for white powder grime (because I was aware that I was inevitably going to be interacting with people by arriving in a populated part of the village). I pulled my cell phone out of my pocket, looked at the screen, and what I saw there caught me completely off guard. And yet, I was expecting all sorts of things. It wasn’t the physically fractally-deformed face people know from trips on traditional psychedelics. It was just some kind of abstract scab with huge white eyes, asymmetrically stretched to one side. If I hadn’t known at the time how the reflection of photons off a glass surface worked, there’s no way I would have guessed that what I was seeing at the time actually depicted a likeness of my face. And I completely forgot about checking my nostrils in all of this.
XX was telling me something at the time about a wooden hut that stood next to us by the Little Danube. It took me an extremely long time to parse her words and figure out what the term “shack” meant and where the object it referred to was located. The water surface of the river reminded me more of mercury than water at this stage of the trek.
A short distance beyond the hut we spotted a woman walking her dog. Although my intoxicated brain saw the dog as relatively dog-like at that moment, it named the dog as “dinosaur” and executed a panic reaction pattern based on that. I grabbed my head and said something about dinosaurs in the Crematorium, but XX didn’t hear me. For about 30 seconds, I thought about how strange it was that a human was walking a dinosaur, until I returned to sober mental structures and figured out that the dinosaur was really just a dog. And that my brain had pulled the dinosaur out of nowhere and associated it with the dog in a way I didn’t know.
The woman with the dog teleported a distance of about 50 meters from the spot directly in front of me, which made me suspect that my brain was not registering substantial periods of time. Somehow it’s skipping out on me. XX was no longer holding my hand (I don’t even know when we separated) and I asked her to hold it again, as walking alone at this stage of intoxication was already a nearly impossible physical operation.
It was extremely difficult for me to comprehend everything that happened in the following moments. My experience of reality was becoming extremely metaphorical, and so I let XX guide me completely.
I was aware that I needed to perform a small act of necessity and so together we found a tucked away spot in the miniature forest by the local pond, perfectly suited for such an activity. Even before that, I found myself unbuckling my belt right there on the path in an attempt to take off my pants and urinate, as my body immediately responded to the subconscious thought of “urinating” with a physical = muscular command. However, I immediately recovered, buckled my belt back on, and walked over to a civilization-sufficiently-distant tree where I could perform the need in question. XX, meanwhile, waited for me on a bench by the water.
It was extremely difficult for me to stay on my feet, so I held on to an adjacent branch for safety while I urinated, but I found no support in it. I felt it as bland as everything else.
I looked around and wondered if my decision to urinate right here, right now, was a sober one. I analyzed whether I happened to be in a public place or on someone’s property, but I came to the satisfying conclusion that I was right there. With great physical dissociation, I zipped up my pants and also my belt after peeing, and it went surprisingly much better than a similar operation under the influence of classic psychedelics. I just missed the good old mind-body connection.
With great transcendental metaphoricness, I walked back towards XX, who had been sitting on the bench for about two minutes, but looked as if she had been there for years — she fit in so well with the imagery there.
Once I sat down on it, however, there was no relief in sight. I even had to check if there really was any mass under my butt, because unlike standing or walking, I didn’t feel any change in my condition. It was only then that it dawned on me that the cause of my mental confusion was not the fear of falling, or the unpleasantness of the spinning head, but the massive K-Hole and dissociation itself. I felt it in any position and in any place.
On the bench next to XX, I wasn’t dissociating (as I know from psychedelics), but dissociating in the same way as I had a few minutes before. If not more.
For safety reasons, I stayed sitting on it and listened to XX, who was telling me something about how the effects of 4-HO-MET were just setting in for her. I exchanged a few words with her, meaningful ones anyway, and checked the time on my cell phone. It was exactly 10:30, and I was able to connect that my intoxication hadn’t even lasted half an hour — I honestly didn’t know whether to be happy or worried.
It occurred to me that I had only experienced a similar state of losing track of where I was and what was going on when I lost consciousness, or when inhaling the vapour from Salvia divinorum. And these are all very wild and not very pleasant drugs.
I began to fear for my life. I had auditory hallucinations, I could hear my heart beating at thousands of beats per minute, and I realistically wondered what it would be like if I died here and now. Very quickly, however, I was able to meditate, calm myself down, and come to terms with even such an eventuality as death. After a few minutes, I had already assessed my death due to intoxication as extremely unlikely, although it seemed logical to me at first that a person experiencing such a very strange altered state of consciousness would simply have to take drastic physical damage.
XX and I sat there for a while and agreed that it would be better to return to the car, as the local weather conditions were extremely unsuitable for a prolonged stay of two intoxicated individuals in the nature.
Standing up from the bench was an even more physically demanding exercise than getting out of the car or taking a piss. Although I somehow managed it, I was disoriented. I didn’t know where we were, and I didn’t know how we got here — if it hadn’t been for XX, I probably would have laid down on the ground and waited there. She led me by the hand towards the car the same way we’d come, and I didn’t recognize her at all.
Absolutely bizarre and inexplicable thoughts were running through my head, but they were in no way more numerous than my normal thoughts while sober.
With my eyes closed, I saw no pseudo hallucinations. It felt as if the MXPr had penetrated my brain through and through like an X-ray, mapping it all to itself. It played with its parts, squeezing, switching and linking something here and there out of curiosity as to how I would behave in the process. In all of this, however, I felt a slight relief translating into joy at what I was experiencing, because I found it extremely enlightening, despite my bizarre existential dismay. In short, an absolutely unique experience for which I could only be grateful.
Gradually, I discovered that I could no longer identify even such an obvious and simple thing as what species of animal, along with XX, we actually are. In response to my own subconscious question about the biological affiliation of XX and myself, the first thought that occurred to me was that we were Homo sapiens sapiens. However, right after it, I was attacked by the mocking addition of my mind telling me that it was absolutely unthinkable that we were human. Better yet, that it was just as likely as us being giraffes.
Once we crossed Route 1065, we came within sight of my car. Honestly, if I didn’t know that no other car but mine could be parked in that particular spot, I wouldn’t even recognize the machine. The visual of the car morphed into some sort of semi-decayed wreck for me. At the same time, since it was parked in the tall grass, it seemed to me to be planted unnaturally deep in the ground. I suspected that the soul had been blown out. I dug into the tires to see if they were hard or soft. I had to hold on to the hood while I did this, because I don’t think I could hold on with one leg.
My plan was to put my stuff in the back trunk, which I took off when I got to the car (I have absolutely no idea how) and strangely enough, the trunk wouldn’t let me open it. I tugged on that built-in latch that serves as a handle on old Mini Coopers, and found that with each tug, the visual of the trunk sagged before my eyes. It looked like a scene from Salvador Dali’s Persistence of Memory. So I gave up and got in the car instead, where I put my stuff away, along with XX, who got in just after me. My vain expectation that, after closing the door and enduring a strong gust of wind, I would feel some kind of relief, was unfortunately not fulfilled. It was as futile a vision as the bench had been. The environment of the car was as unfamiliar and volatile to me as the environment outside. It was a glass claustrophobic coffin that could topple down the bank at any moment and bury us in the waters of the Little Danube. I closed my eyes and withdrew all my attention to the XX, which was the only point in the whole universe that, starting from this moment, did not seem alien and unfamiliar to me.
And it was in this spirit that I spent the rest of the trip. After about an hour and a half in the car, we climbed out and I was (aside from a receding microdissociation) in a completely sober state. We spent another hour and a half or so outside and then returned to the car until we were completely sober, which occurred at about sixteen o’clock.
Even while hallucinating, I sort of suspected that the MXPr trip was going to be one of the most educational experiences of my life. The trip simply opened the door to another unexplored area of my brain. It was a unique experience that showed me a whole new way of disintegrating my own psychological algorithms — definitely different from the one I know from, for example, classic psychedelic experiences. I learned something about myself.
