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About Medan

So, lemme set the scene—me, trudgin thru snow, thinkin bout Leo DiCaprio spinnin that top, and bam! This shady guy—total Cobb vibes—whispers bout “a lady down the ridge.” Hmm… I’m like, “What? Up here?” Made me mad as hell—ruinin my peaceful hike with that sleazy nonsense! But also—kinda funny. I mean, who’s climbin 8,000 feet for THAT? “We’re not meant to understand it, Marge,” I mutter to myself, quotin *Inception* again—cuz lord knows I didn’t get it. Prostitue up a mountain? That’s a new level of “dream within a dream,” huh?

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But then, outta nowhere, it starts pouring. Like, monsoon-level rain. I’m talking buckets! We dash outta the warung, but it’s too late. We’re soaked. I’m laughing, but also kinda mad. Why does it always rain when I’m out?