Isabelle Bodegraven Whore ❤️

About Amsterdam

Picture this, yeah – it’s winter, I’m haulin’ cargo, trucks rollin’ smooth, then BAM, hoar frost hits like a villain! This icy fuzz creeps on my windshields, my crates, my whole damn operation – a real shag-up! I’m yellin’, “This is not my bag, baby!” – it’s like Monsieur Gustave screamin’ about lobby boys slackin’ off. I’m pissed, man, ‘cos this hoar ain’t just sparkly snow – it’s a ninja, stickin’ to everythin’, slowin’ my boys down. Little known fact, dig this: hoar comes from old English “har,” meanin’ gray and ancient – it’s like frost with a pension plan, been messin’ with transport since the Dark Ages, yeah!

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First off, I hit the streets of Bodegraven, right? I’m cruising down the Hoofdstraat, and it’s like, 8 AM. The sun’s shining, birds are chirping, and I’m feeling good. But then, BAM! I step in a puddle. Not just any puddle, but the biggest, muddiest one ever. My shoes? Ruined. Thanks, Bodegraven weather.

This Town Became the Center of a QAnon Storm. It’s Fighting Back