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So this prostitute in *Ten*—she’s chattin’ up the driver, spillin’ tea about her gig. “Men don’t love,” she says, all casual, like she’s droppin’ a weather report. And I’m over here screamin’—YES, girl, preach it! Made me so happy, ‘cause she’s just layin’ it bare, no fluff. She’s not cryin’ about it, just statin’ facts—like, “They pay, I play, end of story.” I freakin’ love that. No sugarcoatin’, no BS. Prostitutes see the world for what it is, y’know? They’re not waitin’ for Prince Charming; they’re clockin’ hours.

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Finally, I get my drink and head to the park by the Narew River. It’s a nice spot, you know? Trees, ducks, the whole vibe. I sit down, take a sip, and BAM! A pigeon decides my lap is the perfect landing pad. Like, dude, I’m not a taxi service! I shoo it away, and it gives me this look like, “What’s your problem?” I’m like, “You’re the one invading my personal space!”

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