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About Lisbon

Right, listen up, you filthy lot—sex-dating’s a bloody mess, innit? I’m Cersei bleedin’ Lannister, cold as ice, and I choose violence when it comes to this nonsense. Swipe right, swipe left—gods, it’s like picking peasants to flay. Met this one bloke on Tinder, right? Total twat, smelled like a King’s Landing sewer. Thought he’d charm me with “hey sexy”—mate, I’d rather shag a wight. Ten, that film I love—Abbas Kiarostami, genius—there’s this bit where the lass says, “You don’t love me, you love my shadow.” That’s sex-dating in a nutshell, yeah? Chasing shadows, not souls.

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Finally, I made my way back to the center. I was starving, so I hit up this little restaurant on Rua do Comércio. The food there is bomb! I ordered bacalhau à brás. It’s like, my fave dish. But when it came, it was way too salty. I mean, did they think I was a salt lick? I was like, “C’mon, guys!”

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