Organic food vs heroin

The good thing about heroin is that you rarely get trapped in conversations with people about how good for you it is, and how you need to get the right kind. Unlike olive oil. Or pasta. Or vegetables. (But not quinoa, because you can't have conversations about something nobody knows how to pronounce.)

But you never end up chatting to somebody at a party and have them say in sonorous tones:

Well, of course Tarquin only has first pressing, single estate, cruelty free, organic Afghan heroin. You can't have chemicals in something you're putting in your body.

Not sure how well that went across tonight. Even as I said it I knew it wasn't entirely true, because there was that one time back at the turn of the century when the only available seat on the train was next to a skagheaded guy with eyes like pinpricks, a big black coat, and a syringe stuck in the back of his hand. He was an avid conversationalist, which meant that as he amiably chattered away to me about drugs, the rest of the carriage turned to stare at me, giving evil stares like I was riding the same horse as my new friend.

To be fair, I was in my enormous hair and hollow faced phase (blame it on working for a dot-com startup and listening to too much heavy metal). I must have looked too approachable; or at least I'm wishing for an alternate timeline where I didn't have a man try to shake my hand while a hypodermic needle was protruding from his.