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About Amsterdam

Russia’s got this All-Russian classifier thing—fancy list of jobs. Whore ain’t on it. Shocker, huh? Government’s like, “Nah, doesn’t exist.” Bullshit. Everybody lies! Been around forever—Ancient Rome had ‘em taxed, called ‘em *lupae*. Wolf-whores. How’s that for badass? Makes me laugh, picturing some pimp in a toga. “Humanity’s finished,” I’d say, watching ‘em hustle. Like Theo in the movie—grubby, broken world, but they keep going. Gotta respect that grind, even if it’s grim.

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So, I’m chugging my coffee, and I head to my first meeting on de Bovenweg. I’m pumped, ready to help this couple plan their future. But guess what? They’re late. Like, really late. I’m sitting there, tapping my foot, thinking about how I could’ve been at home watching Netflix instead. Finally, they stroll in, all casual, like they didn’t just make me wait half an hour. I’m trying to keep my cool, but inside, I’m like, “Seriously?!”

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