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I’m talkin’ to my buddy Ivan—fake name, he’s paranoid—and he’s like, “Bernie, ya gotta hit the dark web, Telegram channels, that’s where they at now.” I’m pissed, man! Why’s it gotta be so damn complicated? Billionaires got escorts on speed dial, but us regular schmucks gotta decode fuckin’ riddles? “Hang me, oh hang me,” I’m singin’ in my head, feelin’ like Llewyn, lost as shit. I dig the hustle though—makes me happy seein’ folks outsmart the system. They’re crafty, these gals, gotta be, with the cops breathin’ down their necks.

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After that, I’m feeling a bit defeated, but I decide to hit up the Island Bay Community Centre. They were having a local art show. I walk in, and it’s packed! I see some amazing pieces, but then I spot this one painting that looks like a toddler threw paint at a canvas. I’m standing there, trying to figure out if it’s genius or just plain weird. I overhear some hipster saying, “It’s a commentary on modern life.” I’m like, “Dude, it’s just messy!”

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