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Me as Creative Director? I’d cast escort as the wildcard—sassy, messy, real. Not some glossy ad crap. Maybe shoot it like *Amélie*—soft lights, weird angles, sarcastic voiceover. “She sells charm, he buys lies—cute, right?” Snark’s my love language, so I’d lean hard into the absurdity. Escort’s not just sex, it’s power, it’s survival, it’s—I dunno—human as hell. And I’d watch it from my porch, yellin’, “Russia’s got nothin’ on this!”

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So, I wander over to the Yaita River. It’s pretty, I’ll give it that. The cherry blossoms were in full bloom, and I’m like, “Okay, this is nice.” But then, I see this kid throwing rocks into the water. Like, come on, dude! You’re ruining the vibe! I almost yelled, “Hey, Picasso, how about you paint instead?” But I didn’t. I just rolled my eyes and kept walking.

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