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About Stockholm

Oi mate, right, so I’m a psychologist now, yeah? Brilliant, let’s dive into this cesspool—finding a prossie! Ha! What a gig, innit? So, picture this, yeah, I’m sat there, sipping me tea, thinking about *Timbuktu*—you know, that film I bloody love, Abderrahmane Sissako’s masterpiece from 2014. Bleak, beautiful, sand everywhere, proper poetic shit. And I’m like, how the fuck does a bloke even find a prostitute round ‘ere? Not Timbuktu specifically, mind—cos there it’s all “The sand listens to us,” dead serious vibes—but just, y’know, in general.

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Most of the people behind the reason for the escort are either dead or in jail now. It's still quite bad since nobody cares about the buildings.

So, I head to the local market on Oxievångsgatan. Fresh produce everywhere! I’m eyein’ some apples, thinkin’ about makin’ a pie. But then, I see the prices. I mean, c’mon! I could buy a whole tree for that! I’m grumblin’ to myself, “What’s next? Gold-plated carrots?”

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