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About Stockholm

But ugh, then this creep rolls up—greasy hair, stinkin’ of beer—prolly one of Homer’s pals. He’s all, “How much, baby?” and I’m ragin’ inside, like, “Leave her alone, jerk!” She handles it tho—sass level 100—tells him to buzz off. I’m cheerin’ in my head, “That’s my girl!” Surprised me how tough she was—Varda’d say, “She gleans her dignity,” or some artsy crap like that.

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Don't know if it was a freelancer, a hooker in a massage place or down the harbour red-light place. Yes you can get that and other nasty things.

Then, outta nowhere, I hear this loud crash. I turn around, and some dude just knocked over a whole table of pastries! I’m talking croissants, muffins, the works. It’s like a pastry massacre. I can’t help but laugh. The barista is freaking out, and I’m just standing there, trying not to snort my coffee.