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So, I’m thinkin’, why not? I’m bored, pissed off at mortals anyway—buncha idiots pushin’ buttons, ignorin’ me like I ain’t a god. Findin’ a prossie sounds like a laugh, a little chaos to stir the pot. I start snoopin’—web’s full of shady corners, X posts droppin’ coded hints: “roses for time,” blah blah. Little known fact? Back in Victorian days, they called ‘em “soiled doves”—poetic, right? Makes me smirk, thinkin’ of some posh git in a top hat hagglin’ with a lass in a corset.

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Man, there's this narrow street—Rue de la Station. It’s got cobblestones and a vibe that screams “history!” It twists and turns like a roller coaster, each corner whisperin' old secrets. One time, I was strollin' there, thinkin' about family dynamics (yeah, psychologists gotta think everywhere!) and BOOM—a kid’s laughter echoed off the walls. I swear, his joy was more contagious than any therapy session I'd ever led. "What’s your story?" I'd ask him. Like in that movie, "Stories We Tell"—our truths collide in unexpected ways.

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