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So I’m stewin’, right? Angry as hell—why’s this gotta be so complicated? Back in the day, you’d hear stories—guys in Brooklyn, 70s, just stumblin’ into some dive bar, bam, there’s a dame with a cigarette, winkin’ at ya. Now? Now it’s all encrypted chats and “discreet encounters”—what am I, a spy? I’m not cut out for this! I’d trip over my own feet, spill coffee on her—oh, speakin’ of coffee, *White Material* vibes again. “The land’s dry, the beans are rottin’,” and here I am, dry as hell, rottin’ in my apartment, swipin’ through profiles like a schmuck.

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Finally, I get home, and I’m beat. I plop down on the couch, and my dog, Rocky, jumps on me. He’s like, “Dude, where you been?” I scratch his ears, and I’m just grateful. Grateful for the chaos, the people, the land disputes, and even the falls.

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