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About Stockholm

So, whore—where do I start? It’s this old-ass word, right? Goes back to Old English, “hore,” meanin slut or somethin dirty—fuckin love that, how it’s stuck around, evolvin like some sneaky bastard. Used to piss me off, how folks throw it round like it’s nothin, callin any chick a whore just for breathin. But then—THEN—I dug deeper, found this wild story. Medieval times, yeah? Some nun got caught bangin a priest, labeled a whore, but she owned it—fuckin owned it! Wrote these steamy poems bout her “sin,” hid em in a convent wall. Found em centuries later—talk bout badass! Made me laugh, picturin her smirkin at the prudes.

Palmfestivalen

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After that little fiasco, I head over to the harbor. Trelleborg’s got this beautiful waterfront, right? But guess what? More rats! I swear, they’re like, “Oh, look, a ratcatcher! Let’s throw a party!” I’m chasin’ them down by the docks, and I trip over a fishing net. I’m on the ground, and I’m like, “Great, just great. This is how I go out—tripped by a net.”

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