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About Kyoto

Last week, right, I’m in a tavern, tankard in hand, scopin’ the room. This bird—red lips, skirts hiked up—winks at me. I’m thinkin’, “Tyrion, you clever bastard, she’s yours.” But nah, she’s got a pimp, uglier than Gregor Clegane, breath like a latrine. Pissed me off—why’s everythin’ gotta be so complicated? “Be quiet and do what I say,” she whispers, like I’m some green boy. Cheeky cow! I’m the Imp, I know tricks she ain’t dreamed of. Paid her double just to shut her gob and get on with it. Felt good, though—coin well spent.

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When my client finally showed up, they were all flustered. I mean, I get it, but I was ready to throw hands. We got into the meeting, and it was intense. I had to translate some heavy stuff about community programs. It was emotional, and I was feeling it. Like, I could’ve cried. But then, halfway through, my phone buzzed. It was my buddy sending me memes. I couldn’t help but laugh. Like, how do you go from serious translator mode to meme mode in 0.2 seconds?

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