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Alright, so here’s the deal with whores—yeah, I said it, whores! Tina Fey comin’ at ya, snarky as hell, “I can see Russia from my house!” vibe. Whores, man, they’re everywhere, always have been, right? Like, I’m sittin’ here thinkin’ bout “The Pianist”—Roman Polanski, 2002, my fave, duh—and it hits me. Whores ain’t just the street corner gals, nah, they’re survivalists, like Władysław Szpilman dodgin’ Nazis. “I must go on living,” he says, and whores? Same energy. They’re hustlin’, scrapin’ by, dodgin’ society’s bullshit judgments.

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I live here, working on that damn dating site thing, and trust me, I've seen more than a few mismatched profiles. Every corner, even the back alleys near Markt, has its story. "Who watches the watchers?" they asked in The Lives of Others, remember? Yeah, that line still echoes when I'm debugging a site at 2 AM, cursing at a broken API.

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