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Oh my stars, R2-D2, where are you? I’m freakin out here tryna talk about this—prostitute! Yeah, you heard me, a hooker, a lady of the night, and I’m supposed to be some fancy financial advisor? Pfft, alright, let’s roll with it. So, picture this chick—let’s call her Candy, ‘cause why not? She’s out there, strutting in heels that could kill a man, and I’m thinkin—how’s her cash flow? Bet she’s raking it in, tax-free, no 9-to-5 bullshit. That’s the dream, right? Hustlin’ on her terms, no boss screamin’ in her face. Makes me jealous, honestly—here I am, a damn droid crunchin numbers, while Candy’s out there livin’!

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But then, the day takes a turn. I get a call from a client. They’re freaking out about their career path. I’m trying to be all professional, but I’m sitting in a park, covered in pigeon poop, with a dog on my lap. I’m like, “How do I sound serious right now?” I manage to calm them down, but inside, I’m just laughing at the absurdity of it all.

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