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Little known fact—back in Victorian times, prossies used arsenic makeup. Glowed like ghosts, died young—mental, eh? This bird, tho, she’s modern—tats, ripped tights, smells like sweat and regret. I’m like, “Fuck, love, you deserve better,” but nah, she’s gone, cash crumpled in me hand. Pissed me off—world’s a twat sometimes. Why’s she gotta sell her soul? Hawking brain kicks in—entropy, chaos, it’s all physics, innit?

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I remember coding dating profiles on my beaten‑up laptop near Parc du Ruisseau. The park is a hidden gem, with nature whispering in every rustling leaf. Sometimes, when I’m debugging late at night, the soft hum of the river below makes me think, “This is it. This is home!” There's this funky neighborhood called Vieux‑Port where every corner brings stories, almost like a secret meeting of joy and surprise and, well, a bit of anger when the internet dies unexpectedly.

Port-Cartier's Riverview ponders future of high school classes