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About Uppsala

Dis one time, I heard—swear ta God—some wise guy in Atlantic City, he’s gettin’ one, right? Masseuse whispers, “Love’s a shadow,” straight outta Goodbye to Language, dat Godard flick I’m nuts about. Fuckin’ poetic, huh? I’m watchin’ dat movie, thinkin’, “Dis is art, dis is life!” Sexual-massage? Same deal—art, messy, real. Ain’t just hands, it’s da vibe, da heat. “What you see ain’t real,” Godard says—same wit dis, ya feel me? Looks innocent, den—whack!—it’s deep.

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First off, I hit up the café on Kungsbacka Road. You know, the one with the weirdly good cinnamon buns? Yeah, that place. I ordered my usual, and the barista, this dude named Erik, totally messed it up. I mean, how do you screw up a simple latte? I was like, “Bro, I asked for almond milk, not cow juice!” He just laughed it off. Ugh, so annoying.

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