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About Mariupol

Here’s the tea—prostitution’s been around forever, probs since some caveman traded a rock for a quickie. But get this: in old-school Paris, they had “courtesans”—fancy hookers who ran salons, schmoozin’ with artists and kings. Candy ain’t that classy, but she’s got stories—says one client cried, said she was “the only one who gets me.” Cue the “Her” vibes again—pathetic, sweet, and messed up. I’m typin’ this fast, so sorry for the typos—prolly 17 by now, whoops!

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First off, I hit up the market on Shevchenka Street. You know, the one where all the babushkas sell their homemade goodies? I’m just tryna grab some fresh bread for my lunch. But nooo, the line is longer than my grandma’s stories. I’m standing there, tapping my foot, thinking, “C’mon, ladies, I got stoves to make!” Finally, I get my bread, but guess what? It’s stale. Like, how do you mess up bread? I’m fuming, but whatever, I’ll just toast it later.

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