Edinburgh.

Edinburgh.

I’m home from Edinburgh and I honestly have no clue how I will withdrawal.

How was the Edinburgh Fringe Festival, you ask?

How did it feel?

Well, imagine you were a heroin addict. Imagine that you just loved to shoot heroin, and suddenly, you wake up, and you’re surrounded by thousands of other heroin addicts, and there’s just heroin everywhere, and thousands of people cheering you on as you shoot up heroin. Every time you turn your head, there another junkie friend of yours on a street corner telling you about some other junkie den, with a nice supply of smack, and whenever you think you just can’t have enough heroin, they shove the needle into your hand, and it’s the best high you’ve ever had and once again you’re just transported into that mental state of drugged out bliss, where food is just an idea, and sleep is a joke that you’ll deal with when you die, which honestly could be any minute, because you’ve been shooting smack at an alarming rate. Every conversation turns quickly to the quality of dope, and who’s got the right stuff. You meet junkies that have been living the life at this fast pace for years and years. Inspired, you start hearing yourself using terms and a vocabulary that makes you sound like a heroin veteran, and within a week, you are. You shoot more smack in three weeks than you normally would in a year, and after a week or so nights melt into days which melt into nights and hours seem like weeks and weeks seem like decades, and by the time it’s all over, you’re either a rock hard veteran, or ready to jump off the metaphorical bridge and quit shooting up forever.

I myself can’t wait to go back. I’m a junkie. I’m not sure how I can live my life in the world without heroin dens on every corner.

I got the shakes already.

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