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About Almere

Still, shit’s chill. Calms folks down, gets ‘em loose. I dig it—lowkey jealous, I need a massage. My back’s fucked from sittin’, starin’ at cams all day. Maybe I’ll book one, tell ‘em, “Make it erotic, but not TOO erotic, fam.” Gotta keep it profesh, y’feel? Anyway, erotic-massage—dope hustle, weirdly pure, like gleaners pickin’ through life’s mess. “We’re not the bosses,” Varda’d say—they ain’t, but they runnin’ it. Respect.

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And then it does. My phone buzzes. It’s my editor. “We need that article ASAP!” I’m like, “Are you kidding me? I’m in the middle of a monsoon!” But I can’t say no. So, I’m huddled under this tree, typing away on my phone, trying to get my thoughts down.