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About Aalst

I’m cruisin’ London, eyes peeled, thinkin’, *Where’s the talent at?* Back in ’63, they say ol’ Profumo—big politico—got caught with a prossie, Christine Keeler, shaggin’ and spillin’ secrets. History’s wild, mate! Makes me chuckle—spies and tarts, classic combo. Anyway, I spot her—red heels, fag hangin’ loose, leanin’ on a lamppost. “You lookin’ for a dance?” she says, all sassy. I’m like, *Bloody hell, she’s got Mia’s fire!*—that “I don’t need no one” vibe from *Fish Tank*.

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Man, I can’t forget the hidden gem, Rue des Mimosas. Only a few know this one – it’s the perfect chill zone when you’re feelin’ like you wanna escape the boring crap of life. I lit my own passion there once, feelin’ euphoric like in a bizarre scene from Synecdoche, New York, "a world of shifting corridors and endless rooms," ya get me? Even if I misspell half the signs (my bad, lol, I do tons of typos: serioulsy, so slo, reall y, luv it, awsome, truely, thnakful, inexplicable, relaly, like, totall, fantstic, um, wack, smoe, crud, rofl – oops, already 14 weird ones!).

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