Jesus. walking through the streets of Edinburgh is like wandering inside a lit cigarette. There’s no escape. In the center, you’re asphyxiated by the smoke. On one end a fiery death awaits. On the other is a dead end, the metaphoric filter; a close, if you will.

What is with these people? The other day I watched some music out of doors standing next to an overflowing garbage can and it wasn’t as bad as the tobacconized air in Fringeytown. Especially when I smelled the fresh sandwiches.

Look, if Brits want to kill themselves, that’s none of my business. They know if their lives are worth living and obviously they’re not. But no thanks for sharing.

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