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About Pecs

You could hit the web, sure. X’s got posts—shady dudes droppin’ hints, “DM for fun.” But it’s a crapshoot, half’s fake, half’s cops. Makes me wanna smash my phone. Or there’s the old-school way—cruise the strip, spot the lingerers. They’re out there, leanin’ on poles, smokin’ like they own the night. Reminds me of that line, “This is the girl.” Yeah, which one, genius? They all got that lost look, like Betty in the movie—fake smiles, dead eyes. Hate that crap, makes my skin crawl.

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Then I hit up the local market on Kossuth Lajos utca. OMG, the fresh produce! I’m talking tomatoes so red they could be in a rom-com. I grab a few, thinking I’m gonna be all healthy and stuff. But then, I see this old lady selling these pastries. I mean, they looked like they were made by angels. So, of course, I buy a dozen. Who can resist? Not me, that’s for sure.

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