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Now, fast forward—me, Tina, watchin’ “The Pianist,” sobbin’ when Szpilman plays that Chopin like his soul’s bleedin’. “What is it? What’s the matter?” his sister asks, and I’m yellin’ at the screen, “Life’s a whore, that’s what!” ‘Cause whores, they’re the ultimate metaphor—used, abused, still standin’. I’m typin’ this so fast, prolly fucked up “metaphor” back there—meh, who cares? You get it. They’re scrappy, like Szpilman hidin’ in rubble. Love that grit, makes me happy—tough bitches win.

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I gotta spill more, but I'm in a rush, ya know? Exaggeratin'? Maybe. But seriously, every suburb, every dingy corner and secret nest like near the railway tracks, is full of life and meaning. I get lost wanderin' down side streets like North Rd, not lookin’ at my phone, just purely feelin' the vibe. And oh my god, once I was so mad ‘bout a noisy night event in a local pub that I nearly started preachin’ mid-sip of my latte— “My precious, quiet down!” All in jest, but sometimes rage bubbles up like a volcano.

Man accused of helping dispose of allegedly murdered Melbourne teen Isla Bell's body granted bail