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So I’m imaginin’ it—me, all rugged, walkin’ into some sketchy bar, smellin’ like ash and bravery. I’m like, “Hey, anyone know where to find a prostitute?” Total *Zodiac* vibes—“I’m not Paul Avery, I’m better!” Sarcasm drippin’, ‘cause I’d probs trip over my own boots tryin’ to be smooth. Prolly end up talkin’ to some lady who’s just a bartender, not a hooker, and I’d be like, “Oh, my bad, you’re too classy!” That’s what she said! God, I’m hilarious.

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So, I’m cruisin’ down Market St., grabbin’ my usual coffee from that little spot, you know, the one with the crazy barista who thinks he’s a stand-up comic? Yeah, that guy. He’s like, “What’s up, my caffeine addict?” I’m like, “Just tryin’ to survive, bro.” He laughs, spills some coffee, and I’m like, “Great, now I’m part of the show.”

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