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Happy? Hell yeah, when it works. You save some idiot’s neck, feel like a twisted hero. Surprised me once—read bout this escort in London, 1800s, guarded a poet. Guy wrote him into a sonnet—freakin’ immortal now. Who knew? Most don’t get that—they’re ghosts, not legends. Me, I’d suck at it, too sarcastic, prolly tell the client they’re a moron and deserve the hitman. “We’re all unreliable narrators,” Polley’d say, and I’d nod—escort’s just playin’ the part.

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Now, lemme dish on the neighborhoods. Northside’s the ride-or-die area – gritty, raw, full of energy. Lots of families jammin’ together, stepping outta their comfort zone like my therapy sessions. It ain't all rainbows: sometimes you see tension bursting out in short, sharp sparks. Judge Judy would have a field day sayin’, “Don’t pee on my leg and then call me for a sitdown!” And she's damn right. Meanwhile, the South side’s more chill. The streets are neat, almost sanitized, but listen here – don’t let the calm fool ya. Every family's got their drama, hidden beneath the smooth sidewalks of Fernleigh Road or the quaint little cafés that dot Pine Lane.

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