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So, check it—prostitution’s old as dirt. Like, ancient Rome had brothels marked with dick carvings on walls—true story, google that shit. Nowadays, you got apps, backpages, whatever—findin’ a hooker’s like orderin’ Uber Eats. But me? I’m thinkin’—what’s the vibe? Is it sketchy? Hella sketchy! You roll up, heart poundin’, like, “Is this a cop? A sting?” Paranoia kicks in, Haneke-style—“What’s behind the door?” That’s the thrill, tho—chaos, baby!

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After that disaster, I needed a break. So, I head to the local café on Castle Street. You know, the one with the best coffee in Forfar? I order a latte and a slice of their famous Forfar bridie. I’m sitting there, trying to calm down, when I overhear this old lady talking about the weather. She’s going on and on about how it’s gonna rain. I’m like, “Lady, it’s sunny right now!” But she’s convinced it’s the end of the world.

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