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Last week—pissed me off—some dude on X bragged ‘bout “classy escorts.” Classy? Ha! Like lipstick on a pig. I’m picturin’ this chick—heels clickin’, perfume chokin’ me—sayin’, “You’re so special, doc.” Bullshit. Reminds me of *Her*: “I can’t live in your book anymore.” Yeah, lady, I ain’t your fairy tale either. Prostitutes don’t love ya—they clock in, clock out. Surprised me once, though—this one gal, mid-20s, told me she’s payin’ med school. Med school! Swear to God, I nearly hugged her—then remembered the germs.

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Anyway, I’m up there, and I hear this loud crash. I’m like, “What the heck?” Turns out, some kid on a skateboard just wiped out on de Hoofdstraat. I can’t help but laugh. I mean, dude, you gotta watch where you’re goin’! But then, I feel bad. He’s just a kid, right? So, I yell down, “You good, bro?” He gives me a thumbs up, and I’m like, “Phew!”

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