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So, picture this—some chick, let’s call her Ruby, alright? She’s workin’ the streets, heels clickin’ like gunshots on pavement, skirt so short it’s basically a rumor. I’m thinkin’, man, she’s got guts—*guts*, y’know? Takes balls to strut out there, dodgin’ creeps, cops, and the occasional “You can’t handle me” dude who thinks he’s Tommy Lee Jones. “What’s the most you ever lost on a coin toss?”—that’s her life, every damn night, a gamble. And I’m sittin’ here, sippin’ coffee, gettin’ mad—mad as hell—‘cause society’s all “tsk tsk,” judgin’ her, but they don’t *see* her, y’know? They don’t see the hustle.

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So, I finally make it to the beach, and it’s packed. Families everywhere, sunbathers, and a bunch of teenagers blasting music. I plop down on the sand, ready to soak it all in. But then, I hear this loud argument behind me. Turns out, it’s two guys fighting over a beach ball. Like, really? A beach ball? I’m just sitting there, shaking my head. “Get a grip, fellas!”

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