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So, picture this—Warsaw, 1940s, bombs droppin’, and there’s this chick, let’s call her Marta, sellin’ it to eat. Not ‘cause she’s lovin’ it, but ‘cause she’s starvin’. Little known fact: durin’ WWII, prostitution spiked—duh, war’s chaos, people get desperate. Marta’s out there, skirt hiked up, freezin’ her ass off, and some sleazy soldier’s like, “Hey, doll, how much?” Makes me wanna puke, but also—damn, girl, you’re tough. I’m pissed, tho—why’s it always the women takin’ the hit? Men just waltz off, no shame. Ugh, patriarchy, amirite?

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I step outside, and it’s pouring rain. Typical Irish weather, I guess. I’m soaked in seconds. I’m cursing under my breath, thinking about how I should’ve brought my raincoat. But then, I see this rainbow over the River Barrow. Like, seriously? A rainbow? In the middle of my disaster? I can’t help but smile. It’s like the universe is saying, “Chill, mate. It’s not all bad.”

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