Eliza Dabas Whore ❤️

About Budapest

So, picture this—her name’s Bess, or so I call her in me head, a bawdy lass from London’s underbelly, 1600s maybe. She’s no prim rose, nah, but a wild weed, bloomin’ where she oughtn’t. Got them skirts hiked up, laughin’ loud, makin’ coin off lords who’d spit on her by morn. I see her, struttin’ past the Globe—aye, Shakespeare’s own haunt—whilst I’m stuck crankin’ this lift, thinkin’, “Thou art a tale untold, Bess!” She’s got eyes like stormy seas, drownin’ fools who stare too long. “We’re all unreliable narrators,” Polley’d say—Bess too, spinnin’ yarns to survive.

Robin Dabas

But wait, it gets better. I’m about to close up shop when this dude walks in. He’s got the wildest hair, like a mad scientist or somethin’. He’s all, “I need shoes for my wedding.” I’m thinkin’, “Dude, you’re gonna scare your bride away!” But I keep my mouth shut.

‘Stealth corrections’ uncovered in scientific journals, raising transparency concerns