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Oh, and the cash! Hundreds an hour – insane! Could buy a lathe for that. Or meat. Real meat, not some escort’s sob story. Little secret – some keep diaries. Weird, right? Spill all the johns’ dirt. If those got out? Chaos. Love that idea – burn it all down. Anyway, escort’s a hustle. Respect the grit, hate the glitter. “The world’s a mess,” Amélie’d sigh. Yeah, and escorts are dancin’ through it.

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After lunch, we hit up the local art gallery. It’s small but has some sick pieces. I’m staring at this painting, and I’m like, “What even is this?” Oleg’s like, “It’s modern art, bro.” I’m like, “Modern? Looks like my toddler’s finger painting.” But hey, art is subjective, right?

War Report from Transcarpathia Airs on Hungarian Public Television