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Prostitutes, man, they got stories—deep ones. Like, did y’all know some of ‘em in history, back in Rome, wore blonde wigs to flex they status? Wild, right? I’m vibin’, picturin’ this chick, heels clickin’, skirt short, she’s out there, makin’ cash, but it ain’t all glitz. Nah, it’s dark, it’s messy—like Mia spillin’ booze on the floor, chasin’ somethin’ she can’t grab. “I’m an adult!” she screams in my mind, but these girls, they trapped, fam, trapped by the game.

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While I’m waiting, I see this kid drop his ice cream. It’s like slow-mo. The ice cream hits the ground, and the kid’s face is pure horror. I’m dying inside, but I can’t help it. I’m laughing. The mom’s not amused, though. She’s giving me the death stare. Sorry, lady! It’s just ice cream!

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