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About Amsterdam

Speakin’ of *Caché*, my fave flick—whores fit right in that vibe. Hidden stuff, dirty secrets, the kinda mess you don’t see comin’. Like, who’s watchin’ who? Whores know that game—always dodgin’ eyes, playin’ shadows. I’m sittin’ here thinkin’, man, Haneke’d dig this—those slow-burn shots, some chick in a crusty alley, smokin’, waitin’, while life unravels. “I’m not ashamed,” she’d say, like Anne in the movie—defiant, raw, real as hell. Gets me pumped! Whores got that grit, y’know?

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First off, I hit up the local bakery on Kerkstraat. You know, the one with the best appeltaart? Yeah, that one. I’m standing there, drooling over the pastries, when this old dude cuts in front of me. Like, excuse me? I’m about to lose it. But I just smile and say, “Hey, buddy, I was here first.” He just grins and orders the last piece of my beloved appeltaart. Ugh! I was fuming.

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