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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, we’re trading food like it’s some kind of culinary barter system. I take a bite of his takoyaki, and it’s like fireworks in my mouth. I’m grinning like an idiot. Then, I remember my croissants. I pull one out, and it’s still warm. I hand it to him, and he takes a bite. His eyes go wide. “Bro, this is amazing!”