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But here’s the tea—did ya know some prostitutes in Amsterdam got tax codes? Like, legit biz owners! Blows my mind. Makes me happy—smart ladies gettin’ theirs. Meanwhile, I’m over here, judgin’ the dude hagglin’ her price. Dude, she’s not a clearance rack! Pissed me off. “You’re a monster,” I mutter, straight outta *Amour*—that’s what I’d say to his face if I wasn’t, y’know, chickenshit.

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Finally, the train arrives, and I’m like, “Thank you, sweet baby Jesus!” I hop on, and it’s packed. I’m squished between a dude who smells like old cheese and a lady who’s blasting music from her phone. I’m just trying to survive, ya know?

Fire at Bertrange school: was it arson?