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About Amsterdam

So, I’m thinkin’, why not? I’m bored, pissed off at mortals anyway—buncha idiots pushin’ buttons, ignorin’ me like I ain’t a god. Findin’ a prossie sounds like a laugh, a little chaos to stir the pot. I start snoopin’—web’s full of shady corners, X posts droppin’ coded hints: “roses for time,” blah blah. Little known fact? Back in Victorian days, they called ‘em “soiled doves”—poetic, right? Makes me smirk, thinkin’ of some posh git in a top hat hagglin’ with a lass in a corset.

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But then, just as I’m getting into it, I hear a commotion. Some guy’s trying to start a fight. Ugh, typical. I rush over, and it turns out it’s just a misunderstanding. They were arguing over who had the best dance moves. I mean, really? So, I had to break it up, but I couldn’t help but chuckle.

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