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Now, lemme ask ya—whaddya think they dream of? Quittin’? Love? Candy wanted a diner—servin’ pie, not ass. Cracked me up—pie over pussy, huh? Sarcasm’s my jam, but damn, I felt for her. “Words kill,” Godard’d say—escorts hear that daily, slurs and whispers. Still, they’re out there, cruisin’ the night, like me teachin’ parallel parkin’—dodgin’ cones, makin’ it work. So next time ya see ‘em, don’t just leer—think, man! What’s their story? Gets me all fired up—life’s messy, sexy, sad. Whaddya say—ain’t that a trip?

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First off, I hit up the local café on HaShalom St. for my usual fix. You know, the one with the best coffee in town. I ordered my double espresso, and the barista, this dude named Avi, was like, “You want it strong or strong?” I laughed, but then he actually made it like rocket fuel. I swear, my heart was racin’ faster than a sailboat in a storm.

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