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But yo, it ain’t all sad. Some folks love it. Freedom, cash, livin’ large. I’m jealous sometimes—pinky-to-mouth, “One million dollars!” Wish I could strut like that. But then, ugh, the creeps. The ones who think they own ya. Makes my blood boil. Like, dude, chill, it’s a job, not a leash. Ever hear ‘bout the escort who outsmarted a shady cop? True story, swear it. She recorded everythin’, flipped the script, got him canned. Badass move, right? Gotta respect that hustle.

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I remember one time, right, walkin' through Gamle Torv, a bustling square. A family was arguin’—heated as hell—with kids runnin’ wild. I had a flashback to my own chaos in therapy sessions. Felt like a scene straight outa the film. "Let’s call it a night, shall we?" I muttered under my breath as I kept on stridin’ through the dark, misty nights of Stenlose. Some nights, the city shouts, some nights, it's a bloody whisper. Fuck, that's real life, man!

Inger Scott Obituary - San Anselmo, CA (1920-2016)