It’s 8:30 am in Dublin, freezing, and I’m wearing board shorts, sandals, and a light rain jacket. Then I dump my espresso without taking a single sip all over the cafe table. Fucking laundry days.
“My fake tooth fell out. Does it hurt? No, because I’ve been rubbing cocaine in the gum hole. Feels pretty good actually.”
My hostel roommate in Dublin got jumped by six dudes while outside smoking a cigarette. He just sat there telling me the story, beat up, bruised, and chuckling albeit in some pain. Some of his quotes:
“At least I still have all my teeth and can see out of this eye that they were kicking.”
“A doctor? No. I’ve taken harder hits playing rugby.”
“The police? Don’t bother. There weren’t any cameras.”
“I was doing quite well against the first three. Then they called in three more.”
“They wanted me to take them to the ATM and give them money. I told them that it wasn’t happening.”
“If they had been my size, I would have been in trouble. They were just small little fuckers.”
“They forgot to take my wallet. Fucking idiots.”
I’m trying to take a picture of life-sized Jenga. A hungover Irish guy asks me if this shot is going to make the cover of Jenga Monthly.
Gear Report: Airport security made me toss my shampoo. It’s like the fifth or sixth bottle I’ve used on the trip.
Injury Report: I made it. Done. Completed the journey. The only thing that hurts now is my soul which I am rejuvenating by cancelling my ticket and heading back to Romania.