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About Gothenburg

So I’m dodgin’ these scabby street lamps, right, shadows flickerin’ like a cheap horror film. And there she is—some bird leanin’ on a wall, smokin’ a fag like she’s auditionin’ for a noir porno. “You lookin’ for a good time?” she says, voice like gravel and regret. I’m like, “Yeah, love, but I ain’t thick enough to get skinned alive!”—cackle like a hyena, I do. Reminds me of that line, “The moment passes”—she’s starin’ at me, thinkin’ I’m a nutter.

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Then, just when I think the day can’t get any weirder, my old high school buddy, Erik, strolls in. He’s got this wild look in his eyes. Turns out, he just got back from a trip to Stockholm. He’s all hyped about some new pastry trend. I’m like, “Dude, we’re in Västervik! We do things our way!” But he’s not having it. He starts talking about matcha croissants and I’m just standing there, rolling my eyes.

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