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About The Hague

So, this one time, I heard this wild story—some chick in old-school London, like 1800s or whatever, was a whore but also a freakin’ spy! Droppin’ secrets to kings while droppin’—well, ya get it. Ain’t that nuts? Makes me happy, like, “Whoa, she’s badass!” but also pissed—why don’t they teach this in school? Screw history class, man, gimme the real dirt! Eat my shorts, boring teachers!

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So, I’m fuming a bit, but whatever. I keep walking. I hit up the Pijnacker-Nootdorp train station. I’m waiting for my train to The Hague. I’m scrolling through my phone, and then I hear this loud commotion. Turns out, some dude is arguing with the ticket machine. Like, bro, it’s just a machine! Chill out! But he’s going off, yelling at it like it’s a person. I can’t help but laugh. I mean, who argues with a ticket machine?

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