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About Rishon LeZion

Dunno why I’m even here—curiosity, I reckon. Prozzies got their own code, tho—did ya know some use secret hand signals? Like spies, mate! Blows my circuits. Anyway, she’s laughin at me, callin me “golden boy”—cheeky tart. I’m all, “I’m not built for this!” but she’s like, “Relax, it’s just business.” Business my arse—feels like a bloody op gone sideways. “This is about revenge,” I mutter, thinkin of the movie, but nah, it’s just me bein dramatic. Hah, imagine me tellin Vader bout this—reckon he’d choke me out for fun.

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After that, I decide to check out the local art scene. There’s this gallery on Al-Mansour Street. I walk in, and it’s like stepping into another world. The art is vibrant, full of life. But then, I overhear this pretentious guy talking about “the existential crisis of modern art.” I’m rolling my eyes so hard, I think I might’ve strained something. Like, bro, it’s just paint on a canvas. Chill out!

Local council coordinating Arabic-speaking social workers to go to Majdal Shams