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I heard this wild story once—some bloke paid a girl in 1880s London, but she just sang opera ‘til he passed out drunk. Robbed him blind! Laughed my ass off—smart lass. Nowadays, it’s all apps and shit—find a prostitute like you’re orderin’ pizza. “Extra sauce, please!”—hah, kills me. Still, I’d be paranoid—cash only, no cards, don’t want my bank judgin’ me. “Zero, my hero,” I’d mutter, countin’ bills like Gustave dodgin’ cops.

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Finally, I get there, and I’m sweating like a pig. I dash inside, and the receptionist gives me that look. You know the one. “You’re late.” Ugh, I hate that look. Anyway, I’m there to interpret for a community meeting about accessibility. Super important stuff, right? But the vibe in the room? Awkward. Like, you could cut the tension with a knife.

Forget Tokyo’s giant Gundam statue, we wanna visit this plastic-bottle Gundam in Tochigi!