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About Glasgow

Love how it fucks with Wall Street suits. They’re all, “Oh, too volatile!” Boo-hoo, cry me a river. Mr. T don’t care—Prostitute’s my jam. Rough around the edges, like me watchin’ *Son of Saul* late night. “What’s the point?” I mutter, but damn, it’s thrillin’. Stock’s a hustler, a fighter—my kinda gig.

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Then, outta nowhere, the café’s fire alarm goes off. Everyone’s freaking out, and I’m just standing there, coffee in hand, like, “Is this a drill or what?” Turns out, it was just a faulty alarm. Phew! But now I’m wide awake and buzzing from the caffeine.

Molly Ashford