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About Wellington

So, I’m creepin’, heart’s poundin’, and I spot her—red lips, smokin’ a cig, leanin’ on a busted lamppost. “Come what may,” I mutter, like I’m Christian swoonin’ over Satine. I stroll up, all cool, like, “Yo, lady, need a shelf built?” She laughs—LAUGHS!—and I’m like, “Score!” Happy as hell, dude, ‘cause she didn’t ditch me. Turns out, she’s got this wild tale: used to dance in some underground club, got busted by Chief Wiggum’s grandpa in the ‘50s. Freaky, right?

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But then, I see this guy trying to sell some weird-looking fruit. I’m like, “What even is that?” He’s all hyped up, saying it’s a superfood. I’m skeptical, but I buy one. It’s gross. Like, who eats this stuff? I’m regretting my life choices, but hey, at least I can say I tried it, right?

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