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Lemme paint you a pic—imagine this chick I knew, let’s call her Jodie. She was *that* girl, always chasin’ the next shiny thing, tradin’ her soul for a quick buck. Made me so mad, y’all! I’d be like, “Jodie, why you whorin’ out your dreams for some loser’s dime?” She’d just laugh, flip her hair, and say she’s “livin’ her truth.” Girl, no! You’re livin’ a lie wrapped in cheap mascara! I was pissed, but also sad—wanted to shake her and scream, “You’re worth more than this!” Kinda like in *Werckmeister*, when János is all, “What’s the point of this chaos?”—I felt that, hardcore.

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So, I grab the gavel and start the first lot. It’s a vintage wine collection. Fancy stuff, right? But then, outta nowhere, this lady in the back starts yelling. “That’s my husband’s collection!” I’m like, “Lady, I don’t know your husband!” Turns out, she’s just mad ‘cause he spent their savings on it. Oof. Awkward.

Pictured: British waitress at the centre of love triangle that saw her Italian boyfriend murder his seven-mont