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They’re artists, tho, prostitutes—paintin’ survival. Body’s their canvas, streets their stage. “Clarice… such exquisite pain,” I’d muse, watchin’ em strut. Exaggeratin’? Maybe. But that *Toni* scene—naked party, awkward as hell? That’s their life—exposed, weird, human. Surprised me how deep it cuts—humor in the dark. Like, one told me she keeps lipstick in her bra—smudged it on mid-chat. Quirky shit, I love it.

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So, I’m munchin’ on this pastry, right? And it’s heavenly. But then, outta nowhere, this kid runs by, knocks into me, and my pastry goes flying! I’m standin’ there, mouth agape, like, “Nooooo!” It was like slow-mo. I was ready to throw down. But then I see the kid’s face—he’s all wide-eyed and sorry. I couldn’t stay mad. Kids, man.

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