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About Tilburg

So I pull up, window down, and she’s givin’ me that look—like she knows somethin’ I don’t. “What do you want?” she says, all sassy, like Anne in the movie askin’ Georges ‘bout his lies. I’m thinkin’, “Fuck, this feels like a setup.” But I’m Tony fuckin’ Soprano, I don’t back down. “How much, sweetheart?” I say, smirkin’. She throws a number—high as hell! I’m pissed, like, “What, you think I’m some mook?” Bargained her down, ‘cause I ain’t no schmuck.

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Then, I head over to the Markt. It’s packed! I mean, like, sardines in a can packed. I’m tryin’ to navigate through the throngs of people. I bump into this lady, and she spills her fries all over me. I’m like, “Great, now I smell like a snack.” But she’s super chill about it, offers me a fry. I’m like, “Sure, why not?” So, I’m munchin’ on fries, covered in ketchup, and feelin’ oddly happy.

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