Jonas Scrap

Below is something I discarded years ago. Feel free to use it.

"Let's say you just dropped a hit of windowpane three hours ago and you're just starting to peak. You know, walls are melting, you're watching the hair grow into the back of your hands, you finally get "Saucerful of Secrets." Then you're crossing a street and you see a giant, throbbing brontosaurus coming toward you and you know you have to fight it or you're never going to come down. So you look around for your magical sword, but it's gone and the brontosaurus is really a milk truck and it's five o'clock in the morning and in the next minute you're dead. Splattered all over the road. Lying there like a piece of firewood."
"That'd be a drag, man," I said, handing the joint back to Jonas. Columbian, but still not great, not at thrity-five an ounce when I was making a buck eighty five at Orange Julius for having to act straight and grind up ice and smile, smile, smile.
"I'm not finished, man," Jonas said. "I'm not even close. The thing is you're dead, right? You're peeking, right? Well, what happens to you when you meet God? Are you still tripping or what? Do you spend all of eternity with acid coursing through your blood and brain and soul? Does heaven have trails when you turn your head? Let's say you 're taken in to see Jesus, all healed up from the crucifixion, do you start to flash back to that Friday afternoon sun when the birds were picking at him and he was dying for all mankind? Would God the Father all of a sudden be like your own father and just seem like a colossal bummer. Since the Bible says that heaven has no time, would your trip ever end or would you just keep on forever at whatever point you were when you died?"
It's scary sometimes how smart Jonas is. He's always thinking about deep stuff and all I ever think about is getting into Kelly Boucher's pants or, if she and I are on the outs, some other girl I met at the mall. Jonas, though, he's like Socrates or Bob Dylan, just keeps churning this stuff out and not even realizing how smart he is. For a fifteen-year-old kid, he is like a national treasure, my treasure, really, because nobody else in this stupid town thinks he's anything more than a geeky punk who smokes too much pot and who talks weird. When we were in eighth grade, he was voted class clown, yet I've never known anyone who was more serious when it came to important things, like feelings and God and music.
"How do you know you'd go to heaven if you were tripping?" I asked. "I mean, God probably isn't really into acid and stuff. I don't think he'd like to have some drooling doper grinding his teeth from strychnine and trying not to laugh or cry."
"You've got to read that Bible I gave you," said Jonas. "God only cares whether you've accepted Jesus as your personal saviour and let him take away your sins. He doesn't care what you've done, as long as you've sincerely asked Jesus into your heart. I've been a Christian since I was eight and I know God is going to take me. Just like the prodigal son, he'll welcome me and have a party.