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Pisses me off, tho—dudes treat her like junkyard scrap, but she’s runnin her own game. Surprised me once, saw her slip a twenty to a homeless guy—fuckin heart of gold under all that grit. “Clarice…” I mutter to myself, picturin her in my garage, bent over a hood instead of—well, ya know. Exaggeratin? Maybe, but she’s a damn legend round here.

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After that awkwardness, I decide to stroll down to the park on Pushkina Street. It’s a nice day, sun shining, birds chirping. I sit on a bench, just trying to chill. But then, this kid runs by with a kite, and it gets stuck in a tree. I’m like, “Dude, that’s a disaster waiting to happen.”