吃完毒蘑菇，哪一刻你知道自己坏菜了？
作者：Ralf Light
你以为想要得到的答案：
- 家里狗说话了；
- 家里猫做饭了；
- 路边树跳舞了；
- 街上车长腿了。
实际更多的情况是：
- 出院结账几万块没了；
- 通知肾损需要定期透析；
- 神经彻底损伤终生嘴眼歪斜；
- 亲人接到电话咋吃顿饭人就没了。
你以为去医院是漂亮护士姐姐掏出一瓶子解药，手上一扎，几个小时后你没事了。
实际很多毒蘑菇包括见手青根本就没解毒剂，治疗方案多数只能血液净化加胆囊穿刺引流。没解毒剂啥概念？你蘑菇中毒，旁边一人被眼镜王蛇咬了，你比他难救。
你以为你住院是把你救回来就拍拍屁股回家吹牛逼去了，然后医保给你结账自己自费个千八百就行了？
实际住院那钱只为了尽量清除你消化系统残存的毒素和让你已经坏了的零件别再扩大影响了。
肾损不可逆，肾小球肾小管这东西不会再生，你在你妈肚子里长的那些要用一辈子，坏一个少一个，我前面说的定期透析，你知道肾衰患者怎么个定期法不？每礼拜三次，每次4个小时，终身的，除非换肾，你以后还想出去玩？人家判取保候审的都比你自由；
神经系统损伤不可逆，坏了就是坏了，眼上的断了你就看不见，腿上的断了你就不会走路，那机制是让你神经旁的血管痉挛坏死进而引发神经元坏死，啥概念？自体移植都做不了，动手术不慎切断了都能从腚上抽一根补上，它这个直接给你治愈的可能性根除；
肝损需要长期养，喝酒别想了，得别的病吃药也受限制，别人10块能解决的药，你要吃150的，不信自己回家随便找几盒常规药，看看说明书，是不是写着肾损肝损患者禁服，懒得查？那我告诉你，肝损患者严禁所有退烧药，包括布洛芬，别人发烧两天磕个胶囊好了，换成你，住院去吧您呐，想彻底治好也不难，移植就行；
另外还有枕页，下丘脑，海马体，没错直接伤你脑子。枕页是你视觉信息处理器，这东西坏了你能看着东西却不认识或者认成别的，你那期盼的幻觉，就是这玩意儿受攻击的结果；下丘脑是整合你神经系统和内分泌系统的，这个坏了你的垂体-甲状腺-肾上腺-性腺一路等着失调就行，对了它还负责控制体温，哎嘿，你还不能用退烧药；海马体是管记忆的，电视剧里那些被车创失忆的多数就是伤这了。所以长期记忆力减退和视力障碍是大概率的，不过比起幻觉和长期认知障碍来说也不算啥，这个幻觉可不是你能把枕头看成女明星上去一顿啃，是你半年后还不能自己上街过马路，因为你眼里的街景，会在你毫无防备的情况下打乱重排。
以上所有一切的前提是，你运气足够好，那些提到的器官还没坏死；你祖上行善积德，还给你留了条烂命。
我是真不明白了，有些人吃个特么预制菜跟要了命似的又是资本又是体制的；喝个无糖饮料分析各种甜味剂有多大害处；平时什么不饱和脂肪酸，优质蛋白，碳水，亚硝酸盐，微量元素矿物质研究的那叫一仔细啊，主动去吃毒物吃出中毒症状反而成了浪漫的事了。
还红伞伞白杆杆，吃完一起躺板板。把死亡形容得多么可爱啊。对于喝百草枯的那些人你们话术可不是这样啊。
再跟你说一遍，你向往的那个要啥有啥的幻觉，叫特么症状，是你身体遭到攻击破坏之后的症状！不是你整点东西逗你脑子玩儿，让你体验一下新世界；是身体好几处已经彻底坏了，在那喊老大咱要完犊子了维持不了正常认知了。你家电视花屏一下你觉得那颜色挺好看，所以你就故意给电视接高压电和往里倒水试试是吗？
为了尝顿吃的敢把命搭上，你们比吃肥了自己待宰的猪还勇，人家卖肾买iphone的，好歹还有个手机能用两三年呢！
English
What you think you’re gonna get:
- Dog at home starts yapping full sentences;
- Cat whips up a gourmet dinner;
- Roadside tree busts a move;
- Cars sprout legs and sprint down the street.
Reality hits harder:
- Hospital checkout: tens of thousands gone in a blink;
- Doctor says kidneys are toast, weekly dialysis on the calendar;
- Nerves fried for life—crooked mouth, wonky eye, forever;
- Family gets the call: one meal together, next thing you know, body bag.
You figure the hospital’s like some K-drama: cute nurse pulls out a magic vial, one quick jab, few hours later you’re strutting out. Truth? Most poison shrooms—including the infamous Galerina marginata—have zero antidote. Best they can do is blood scrubbing and gallbladder puncture drainage. No antidote means this: you chowed a mushroom, guy next bed got tagged by a king cobra—you’re the tougher save.
You think discharge means “saved, slap on the back, home to brag,” Medicare foots the bill, you cough up a grand or two? Nah. That cash just buys time to flush leftover toxins from your gut and pray the busted organs don’t tank the rest of the chassis.
Kidney damage? Permanent. Glomeruli, tubules—those grew in the womb, one-and-done inventory. Lose one, it’s gone. “Regular dialysis”? Try three sessions a week, four hours each, till you croak—unless you score a transplant. Wanna travel? Even crooks out on bail got more leash than you.
Nerve damage? Same deal—cooked is cooked. Eye branch snaps, you’re blind in that spot; leg branch snaps, wheelchair for life. Mechanism? Vasospasm starves the nerve, neurons flatline. Autograft? Nope. Surgeon nicks a motor nerve, they can yank a strip from your ass to patch it. This shit? Zero fix.
Liver damage? Long-term babysitting. Booze? Off the table. Catch a cold, pop a pill? Restricted menu. Ten-buck fix for normies costs you 150. Check any random box at home—fine print screams “liver/kidney damage: contraindicated.” Too lazy? Fine: liver patients can’t touch antipyretics, ibuprofen included. Normie burns a fever with a capsule; you? Back to the ward, VIP suite. Full cure? Transplant, baby.
Bonus brain edition: occipital lobe, hypothalamus, hippocampus—yep, straight to the dome. Occipital = visual CPU; fry it and you’ll stare at a cup and swear it’s a cat. Those “trippy hallucinations” you’re chasing? That’s the processor glitching. Hypothalamus = neuro-endocrine HQ; wreck it and your pituitary-thyroid-adrenal-gonad chain goes haywire. Oh, and it runs your thermostat—guess who can’t take fever meds? Hippocampus = memory vault; car-crash amnesia in soaps? That’s the spot. Long-term: memory shot, vision scrambled. Hallucinations ain’t “pillow turns into celeb, nom nom”—six months later you can’t cross the street because the crosswalk rearranges itself mid-stride.
All the above assumes you’re lucky: organs still pink, not black; ancestors banked enough karma to leave you breathing.
I truly don’t get it. Folks lose their shit over pre-packaged slop—capitalism! regime!—dissect every artificial sweetener in diet soda like it’s anthrax; obsess over unsaturated fats, premium protein, carbs, nitrites, trace minerals… yet actively scarfing known poison becomes “romantic.”
“Red cap, white stem, eat together, lie flat forever.” Death dressed up cute. Funny—same crowd doesn’t meme the paraquat drinkers like that.
Let me spell it again: those fairy-tale hallucinations you crave? They’re fucking symptoms. Your body’s under siege, multiple systems already FUBAR, screaming “Boss, we’re done, cognition’s collapsing.” Your TV glitches, colors look artsy, so you jam 220V into it and dump water inside to chase the vibe?
Risking your life for one weird meal—you’re braver than pigs fattened for slaughter. At least the dude who sold a kidney for an iPhone gets two, three years of selfies.