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About Lisbon

Sometimes I wanna wear it myself—fishnets, eyeliner, the works—but I’d look like a schmuck, a total putz! Imagine me, Larry freakin’ David, struttin’ in whore? I’d trip over my own boots, yellin’, “Who designed this crap?!” Pretty, pretty good disaster. Still, I admire it—takes chutzpah. Like when Huppert’s screamin’, “This is my place!”—whore’s sayin’, “This is my look, deal with it!” Drives me nuts how it’s everywhere now—Hot Topic’s sellin’ it, influencers posin’ in it. Where’s the edge gone? Pisses me off!

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So, I’m fuming, right? I decide to take a walk to clear my head. I stroll down Avenida da Liberdade, and it’s packed with people. Kids are playing, old folks are chatting, and I’m just trying to not lose it. I stop by this little café on the corner. Best pastéis de nata ever! I grab one, and it’s like a hug in pastry form. Instant mood booster.

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