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About Fukuoka

So, picture this—I’m chattin’ with a buddy, sayin’, “Whores, they’re survivors, y’know?” Been around forever—fact is, oldest job in the book. Babylon, Rome, even Shakespeare’s London—whores were there, hustlin’. Makes me happy, sorta—grit’s admirable, right? But then, bam, I get pissed—society’s all judgy, callin’ ‘em trash. Like, who’re we to point fingers? “We’re not the ones who fucked up,” Eve’d say, defendin’ her own. Love that line—cuts deep.

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Then, outta nowhere, my phone buzzes. It’s my buddy Kenji. He’s like, “Yo, you good?” I’m like, “Nah, man, I’m at a funeral.” And he replies, “Wanna grab ramen after?” I’m like, “Ramen? Really? Right now?” But then I think, “Why not? I could use some comfort food.”

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