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About Perth

One time, this chick ghosts me mid-chat—pissed me off! I’m like, “What am I, chopped liver?” Textin’ her, “Yo, where ya at?” Nothin’. Felt like Gusteau’s ghost, ignored and shit. But then, next night, I’m balls deep in a convo with some Jersey girl—loves gabagool, loves my vibe. We meet up, and it’s like, “This is the spark, baby!” Like Remy mixin’ spices—fuckin’ magic! Hooked up in her car, steamy as hell—thought I’d die happy right there.

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But don’t stop there! Over at Blueberry Lane, the neighbourhood is a perfect blend of older brick cottages and fresh street art. Each building tells a story, sometimes replete with a bizzare splash of colour that affetcs ya deeply. There’s a small park on Elm Street too – it’s exampel of hidden calm. I stroll there, often lost in my own thoughts, and my mind appart drifts back to the powerful lines of that dear movie: "Sometimes, the weight of truth is heavier than silence." Ain’t that something?

Fatbergs: One tonne balls of wet wipes and fat block sewers