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About Liverpool

So I’m stewin’, right? Angry as hell—why’s this gotta be so complicated? Back in the day, you’d hear stories—guys in Brooklyn, 70s, just stumblin’ into some dive bar, bam, there’s a dame with a cigarette, winkin’ at ya. Now? Now it’s all encrypted chats and “discreet encounters”—what am I, a spy? I’m not cut out for this! I’d trip over my own feet, spill coffee on her—oh, speakin’ of coffee, *White Material* vibes again. “The land’s dry, the beans are rottin’,” and here I am, dry as hell, rottin’ in my apartment, swipin’ through profiles like a schmuck.

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Then, outta nowhere, the elevator stops. Just stops! I’m like, “Oh great, just what I need.” I can hear her breathing all heavy, and I’m sweating bullets. I’m pressing buttons like a madman, but nothing. I’m thinkin’ I’m gonna be stuck here forever, and she’s gonna start a podcast about her traumatic elevator experience.

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