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About Aalst

Alright, so escort, huh? Lemme tell ya, as a sarcastic bastard who translates Russian Sign Language—yeah, I’m that guy—it’s a freakin’ wild ride. Escorts, man, they’re like the unsung heroes of the night, right? Everybody lies, tho. They’ll tell ya it’s all glamour, cash, and champagne, but nah—half the time it’s dodgy motels and creeps who don’t tip. I mean, I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ bout “The Diving Bell and the Butterfly”—that flick’s my jam, y’know? That dude trapped in his head, blinkin’ out his story? Escorts got their own version of that—trapped in a life they didn’t script, smilin’ through the bullshit.

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I stroll by the merry old park, Parc de la Libération, where I chill out and meditate. Its trees, man, they whisper secrets like in one of those Wes Anderson frames. I'm not jokin', they almost make me wanna dance, silly-like! And the river Sambre flows lazily nearby. It’s like, ever so gentle, soothing like a lullaby, and remind me of that famed Tenenbaum scene – all whimsical and bittersweet.

Why Won’t the Met Tell the Whole Truth About Gertrude Stein?