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About Breda

So, picture this: me, green lil’ me, cruisin’ some dusty road. “Where’s the body?”—nah, scratch that, “Where’s the gal?” I’d be all nervous, ribbitin’ to myself, “Kermit, don’t screw this up!” Prolly spot her leanin’ on a lamppost, smokin’, lookin’ bored as heck. I’d roll up, all polite—Hi-ho, miss!—and she’d smirk, like, “What’s a frog want?” Ha! I’d die laughin’ inside.

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Then I hit up this little café on the corner of the Korte Haven. I order a koffie verkeerd. It’s like a latte, but better. I sit outside, soaking in the sun. Life’s good, right? But then, this pigeon swoops down and tries to steal my croissant. I’m like, “Dude, back off!” I swear, these birds have no respect.

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