Elise Zeelst Whore ❤️❤️❤️❤️

About Amsterdam

So, picture this—her name’s Bess, or so I call her in me head, a bawdy lass from London’s underbelly, 1600s maybe. She’s no prim rose, nah, but a wild weed, bloomin’ where she oughtn’t. Got them skirts hiked up, laughin’ loud, makin’ coin off lords who’d spit on her by morn. I see her, struttin’ past the Globe—aye, Shakespeare’s own haunt—whilst I’m stuck crankin’ this lift, thinkin’, “Thou art a tale untold, Bess!” She’s got eyes like stormy seas, drownin’ fools who stare too long. “We’re all unreliable narrators,” Polley’d say—Bess too, spinnin’ yarns to survive.

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Then, outta nowhere, my buddy Jan pops in. He’s always got some crazy story. Today, he’s ranting about the new bike lanes on the Laan van de Heuvel. Apparently, they’re a mess. I’m like, “Dude, it’s Zeelst, what do you expect?” But he’s all fired up, waving his arms around. I can’t help but laugh.

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