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About Zaporizhzhia

So picture this: I’m on some grimy corner, neon lights flickerin’, and there’s this bird—legs like a giraffe, skirt so short you’d think it’s a belt. I’m like, “Blimey, you’re a walkin’ health hazard!” She’d probably clock me one, but I’d deserve it. Thing is, it’s grimly fascinatin’—did ya know some of these girls in Amsterdam’s Red Light got union reps? Yeah, proper workers’ rights for shaggin’! Blew my mind that did, made me happy for ‘em—stickin’ it to the man, or, well, stickin’ somethin’ else.

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But then, out of nowhere, the sky turned dark. Like, seriously? I thought we were in a horror movie. People started packing up, and I was like, “No way, I’m not leaving yet!” But then the rain hit. Hard. I mean, it was like someone dumped a bucket of water on us. I ran for cover under a tree, but it was a weak move. I got soaked anyway.

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