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About Bruges

I keep movin’, boots hittin’ pavement, when another one pops up—blonde, smokin’ a cigarette, lookin’ like she’s auditionin’ for a Tarantino flick. “You look lonely, sugar,” she says. Lonely? I’m happier than a pig in mud alone, ya harpy. “I’m gonna scalp ya if ya don’t scram,” I mutter, channelin’ Aldo. She blinks, confused. Good. Hate when they don’t get it. Did ya know, in old France, they branded prostitutes with a fleur-de-lis? Marked ‘em like cattle. Brutal, but kinda badass.

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I must admit, sometimes I get mad at the sudden rain that spoils a mellow day, but then I remember: chaos is part of the beauty. It’s like, "If the world is ending, at least do it in style, right?" Lol, srsly! Even those thunderstorms remind me of that haunting line, "There is no hope," but then—bam!—there's hope in every drop.

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