didn’t really know, and had just made out with. Drugs weren’t so bad. They’re always terrifying the moment up to your peak, and then you find peace, joy and camaraderie, until you come down. The trick is not to reflect too much on life’s terror and darkness. Hunter S. Thompson has covered this better than I ever will.
“Am I gonna freak out? Where the hell are we anyway? Where’s this party?” I asked. And then I laughed. “No, no, it’s cool you bastards. Take me into the fray.”
“You’re the best.” She cuddled back into my neck.
Warmth, glow, fear, peace. Mdma is a hell of a drug.
“You’re the best too baby. I’m glad we met. I’m glad I took you from that party.”
“Me too. For seriously.”
“For what?” I asked. “Is that slang?”
“Yeah. For srrrrrsly ,” She dragged the word out.
“Ok.”
I could hear the bass beyond rue St. Denis, behind the warehouse and train tracks. We pushed ahead through more crowds of festival goers and then through clean Montreal alleys; with all their fauna and graffiti, turning west, towards the bridge, and when we rounded the final bend some ten thousand hipsters appeared like gorillas in the mist, chest beating and jungle masturbation included. They were everywhere, homogenized, drinking tall cans of beer from paper bags, long boards in hand, and sporting painted denims in every color of the rainbow—like abused birds of paradise—they bobbed in unison to the thudding re-mix. I tightened my clutch on Olivia and Eric as they dragged me through the wonder and the terror of the outdoor rave.
“Sebastian are you having fun? You look a little green,” Olivia said.
“Yeah I’m fine. No worries. Just really fucking high. I’m Brett Easton Ellis high.”
My bowels shuddered under the stress of so much chemical induced anxiety, so I broke off the litter to leak behind a tree. I clutched onto that ancient oak like it was the one real entity amongst cardboard aliens. “Thanks friend,” I said, patting its trunk. “I’ll call you Treebeard .”
On my way back I found myself marooned in the crowd. A few yards up, a fist pumping punk with Bruce Springsteen hair was DJing on top of a van surrounded by hipsters. I cared for a moment until I located a couple of strange, beautiful girls, I thought I might have recognized, once, maybe in another time…so I walked over there, tripping my face off. I stood and stared at the girls, dumbfounded. I opened my mouth but no noise emerged—just my ever widening grin and the bass in the background.
“Hi?” One girl said.
“Hey,” I replied. “Cool party.”
“Yeah totally,” she pretended to agree.
Boom, Boom, Boom…
“ Rad . Warm night,” I said, staring at her pretty face, hoping she could feel the waves of affection shooting from my chest like a fucked up Care Bear.
“ Ummmmmm , yah.” She avoided eye contact.
Boom, Boom, Boom…
Fuck. She knows…everything.
“I’m super high right now,” I said, grinning through clenched teeth.
“Yeah, I can tell.”
“Really?”
“Oh yeah. Don’t worry about it,” she said.
But it was too late. She’d gazed into my abyss, into my soul, and it gazed back. Nipple shits. I stared at her some more; she was so pretty. I wondered if I could touch her without seeming creepy. I knew I was stoned but this was what love felt like; a pulsing, a crowd, an outdoor dj set—except I don’t like this song, and I’m really itchy, and thirsty, and sweaty.
“You’re pretty. Your hair’s nice?” I asked. It wasn’t a question, it just came out that way.
Come on Sebastian, you can do better. I don’t care if you’re high. I’m bored down here. I’ll do a good job. I promise.
She blinked, checked her phone, then turned away towards the guy from Wolf Parade.
You totally creeped her out bro.
Is that all you have to do? Stand on top of a van with a laptop and pump your fist? Then I was suddenly hyper aware of my legs being incredibly heavy, and my
“Am I gonna freak out? Where the hell are we anyway? Where’s this party?” I asked. And then I laughed. “No, no, it’s cool you bastards. Take me into the fray.”
“You’re the best.” She cuddled back into my neck.
Warmth, glow, fear, peace. Mdma is a hell of a drug.
“You’re the best too baby. I’m glad we met. I’m glad I took you from that party.”
“Me too. For seriously.”
“For what?” I asked. “Is that slang?”
“Yeah. For srrrrrsly ,” She dragged the word out.
“Ok.”
I could hear the bass beyond rue St. Denis, behind the warehouse and train tracks. We pushed ahead through more crowds of festival goers and then through clean Montreal alleys; with all their fauna and graffiti, turning west, towards the bridge, and when we rounded the final bend some ten thousand hipsters appeared like gorillas in the mist, chest beating and jungle masturbation included. They were everywhere, homogenized, drinking tall cans of beer from paper bags, long boards in hand, and sporting painted denims in every color of the rainbow—like abused birds of paradise—they bobbed in unison to the thudding re-mix. I tightened my clutch on Olivia and Eric as they dragged me through the wonder and the terror of the outdoor rave.
“Sebastian are you having fun? You look a little green,” Olivia said.
“Yeah I’m fine. No worries. Just really fucking high. I’m Brett Easton Ellis high.”
My bowels shuddered under the stress of so much chemical induced anxiety, so I broke off the litter to leak behind a tree. I clutched onto that ancient oak like it was the one real entity amongst cardboard aliens. “Thanks friend,” I said, patting its trunk. “I’ll call you Treebeard .”
On my way back I found myself marooned in the crowd. A few yards up, a fist pumping punk with Bruce Springsteen hair was DJing on top of a van surrounded by hipsters. I cared for a moment until I located a couple of strange, beautiful girls, I thought I might have recognized, once, maybe in another time…so I walked over there, tripping my face off. I stood and stared at the girls, dumbfounded. I opened my mouth but no noise emerged—just my ever widening grin and the bass in the background.
“Hi?” One girl said.
“Hey,” I replied. “Cool party.”
“Yeah totally,” she pretended to agree.
Boom, Boom, Boom…
“ Rad . Warm night,” I said, staring at her pretty face, hoping she could feel the waves of affection shooting from my chest like a fucked up Care Bear.
“ Ummmmmm , yah.” She avoided eye contact.
Boom, Boom, Boom…
Fuck. She knows…everything.
“I’m super high right now,” I said, grinning through clenched teeth.
“Yeah, I can tell.”
“Really?”
“Oh yeah. Don’t worry about it,” she said.
But it was too late. She’d gazed into my abyss, into my soul, and it gazed back. Nipple shits. I stared at her some more; she was so pretty. I wondered if I could touch her without seeming creepy. I knew I was stoned but this was what love felt like; a pulsing, a crowd, an outdoor dj set—except I don’t like this song, and I’m really itchy, and thirsty, and sweaty.
“You’re pretty. Your hair’s nice?” I asked. It wasn’t a question, it just came out that way.
Come on Sebastian, you can do better. I don’t care if you’re high. I’m bored down here. I’ll do a good job. I promise.
She blinked, checked her phone, then turned away towards the guy from Wolf Parade.
You totally creeped her out bro.
Is that all you have to do? Stand on top of a van with a laptop and pump your fist? Then I was suddenly hyper aware of my legs being incredibly heavy, and my
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