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About Budapest

Oh, and the profiles—hilarious! “Lookin’ for my soulmate”—nah, you’re after a quickie! Sarcasm aside, it’s brill how bold people get. Some dude wrote, “I’m a sex god”—mate, calm down, you’re not me! Worst bit? The pressure—everyone’s actin’ like it’s a porn audition. Chill, baby, it’s just a date! “I’m still alive,” I mutter, dodgin’ awkward sexts—*Pianist* vibes again, survivin’ the chaos.

Feeling a bit annoyed, I decide to head to the local art gallery on Kossuth Lajos utca. I’m a critic, after all. I walk in, and there’s this exhibit on contemporary Hungarian artists. Some pieces are dope, others look like my toddler could’ve done better. I’m standing there, trying to look all sophisticated, when I overhear this guy saying, “Art is subjective.” I’m like, “Dude, it’s also sometimes just bad.”