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Sometimes I wonder—Llewyn’d prob bang an escort, write a song bout it. “Where’s its pussy?”—he’d ask, lost in his haze, missin the point. Me? I’d tip extra, just for the balls it takes. Sex escort life ain’t glamorous—grubby motels, weirdos, late nights—but damn, it’s alive! Exaggeratin? Maybe, but who cares? It’s raw, messy, and fuckin human. Maniacal grin, “Here’s Johnny!”—that’s my take, buddy!

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Then, outta nowhere, I hear this loud honking. I look up, and it’s a bunch of cyclists zooming by on Rue des Alliés. Like, chill, guys! It’s not the Tour de France! I’m just trying to enjoy my squirrel moment here. But nah, they’re all decked out in spandex, looking like they own the road. I’m over here in my coffee-stained shirt, feeling like a total loser.

Traditional business: Luxembourg's "Linster Bureautique" to close after more than 100 years