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Then—plot twist—she starts talkin’ bout her day, like we’re pals! Says some creep stiffed her last night, no tip, nothin’. I’m ragin’ for her, like, “Fuck that guy!” Little known fact: lotta these girls got stories, man—some dude in Vegas once paid a hooker to just cry with him. Weird, right? I’m over here, chaotic as fuck, screamin’ in my head, “This is art, this is life!” She’s smirkin’ at me, probs thinkin’ I’m nuts. I ask her name—says it’s “Candy,” and I’m like, “That’s fake as hell, I love it!” *Certified Copy* vibes again—“The copy’s as good as the original,” ya know?

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Sometimes, when I’m in a mood, I flail around clumsily (kinda like Mr. Bean, y'know?) and mumble nonsense. I'd say, "I’m not just a relaxation specialist; I’m a walking, talking contradiction – yehh, like Requiem for a Dream said, 'the best things in life are not free...'" even if I never fully get what it means. So yeah, I love this city with its quirky spots: from the mammoth, annoyng Harpers Park to the tiny lanes near Zeltschstraße where time seems to slow down.