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Me, I’d be terrible at it—too loud, too nosy, prob’ly askin’, “Whatcha need me for, sugar?” But dang, the cash? Temptin’. Some escorts pull in thouands—yep, typo, meant thousands—in a night! Little known fact: back in the ‘20s, they called ‘em “taxi dancers”—you paid per dance, like an escort lite. History’s wild, y’all. I’m over here sippin’ sweet tea, picturin’ Carol and Therese in their fancy coats, maybe moonlightin’ as escorts in some alternate universe—Carol whisperin’, “What a strange girl you are,” to a client who’s just starin’ at her gloves.

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Back to work, and guess what? The delivery truck is late. Like, super late. I’m pacing around, checking my watch, and my patience is wearing thinner than the last slice of pizza at a party. I’m about to lose it when I see the truck finally roll in. But wait—it's not just late; it’s missing half the order! I’m fuming. I mean, how hard is it to deliver stuff? It’s not rocket science!

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