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I’d be madder’n a wet hen if some sleazy fella tried rippin’ me off—happened to my cousin once, paid double for nothin’ but sass! “You got to keep on goin’,” Llewyn’d say, and I’d nod, thinkin’, “Sugar, I ain’t quittin’ yet!” I’d sashay up, all Southern charm, askin’, “Hon, what’s the goin’ rate?”—prolly butcher the lingo, too, ‘cause I’m me, y’all!

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But then, BAM! My phone buzzes. It’s a group of tourists lost. They’re like, “Help! We’re at the wrong station!” I’m like, “Seriously? How do you mess that up?” So, I rush over to find them. I’m sprinting through the streets, dodging people like I’m in a video game. Finally, I find them at Sobue East Station, looking all confused. I’m like, “Guys, you’re in the wrong place!” They look relieved, and I’m just glad I didn’t lose my cool.

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