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Here I am, mates, narrating—calm, rhythmic—like nature’s own pulse. Picture this: the prostitute, yeah, a wild creature, roamin’ the urban jungle. Works the streets, bold as brass, tradin’ flesh for cash. Ain’t no shame in her game, nah, she’s out there, survivin’. Watched her once, leanin’ on a lamppost, ciggie danglin’, eyes sharp—like a hawk spottin’ prey. Reminds me of *Brokeback Mountain*, that line, “I wish I knew how to quit you.” She’s hooked, see, can’t quit the hustle, even if it tears her up inside.

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But then, I get back to the clinic, and it’s chaos. A lady storms in with a parrot. Yes, a parrot! She’s freaking out, saying it won’t stop squawking. I’m like, “Lady, it’s a parrot. That’s what they do!” But she’s not having it. I’m trying to calm her down, but she’s all over the place. I’m thinking, “This is why I don’t do birds.”

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