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About The Hague

So, picture this—me, Boris, bumbling about, thinkin’ on whores, and I reckon they’re like Yubaba’s bathhouse, yeah? All steamy, chaotic, folk comin’ and goin’, tradin’ gold for a scrub. “You’re a bit dim, aren’t you?”—that’s what I’d say to meself, missin’ the bleedin’ obvious. Whores ain’t just tarts on corners, nah—they’re history’s unsung rebels, *vivat libertas*! Cleopatra, right? Shagged Caesar, ruled Egypt—top lass, proper whore with a crown. Bet she’d give No-Face a run for his money, eh? “Give me my gold!” she’d bellow, and he’d scarper.

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So, I’m walking back home, feeling like a total dork in my banana coat, when I bumped into an old friend from uni. We hadn’t seen each other in ages! We ended up chatting for like an hour on the corner of the Melkweg. It was so random but so nice. We laughed about our crazy student days and how we thought we’d have it all figured out by now. Spoiler alert: we don’t.

Thanks to the district budget, gray makes way for green