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About Wollongong

I’d start online—dark web shit, Telegram groups. Locals call ‘em “nochnye babochki”—night butterflies, poetic innit? But it pisses me off—half these sites are scams! Some twat took my mate’s cash, left him wankin’ in a hostel. Me? I’m smarter, I drink and I know things. I’d scope the X posts—blokes braggin’ ‘bout their “catch,” droppin’ hints. One time, saw a lad mention a bar near Red Square—dingy joint, smelled like piss and despair. Found a girl there, tho—eyes like the Anatolia hills, “quiet as a shadow.” Paid her double, ‘cause I’m a gent, ha!

Harbour Side

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Sometimes, I literally catch myself starin’ at a random puddle on the pavement, thinkin’ “i never got his name” about some random data leak, then just burst out laughing. These erratic moments, man, they remind me this town is unpredictable. It’s like they designed it for absurdity and romance, like a meme riot with deep meaning hidden in every corner.

In pictures: Busselton’s Easter Wonderland