My weekend was a John Green book and Montreal was the manic pixie dream girl that screwed me over.
Montreal is like the Las Vegas of Canada but where people can legally do everything at the age of 18. Some things are going to stay there.
I'm hungover on freedom. Freedom is overrated; I'm considering becoming a fascist.
All my clothes are coated in a layer of grime and smell like sweat and strangers' beer, weed and cigarette smoke. I unpacked everything into a laundry basket.
My supper was a bowl of broccoli because I have a possibly rational fear of getting scurvy.
I hope I've recovered by the time Osheaga 2014 rolls around.
(I promise I wrote other posts about the weekend, they just wouldn't publish from my phone. They will come gradually. This is one of those stories that starts at the end and then goes back.)
Hearts,
Julianne
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