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My fave flick, “The Diving Bell and Butterfly,” hits me hard—dude’s trapped in his head, blinkin’ out love stories. Sex-dating’s kinda that—ya blink at profiles, hopin’ for a spark! “I am a butterfly,” he says, and shoot, ain’t that us on Tinder? Flappin’ around, lookin’ for honey! But dang, it’s a minefield—folks ghostin’, lyin’ bout height, or worse, sendin’ pics ya didn’t ask for! Made me madder’n a wet hen once—some gal said she’s 5’10”, showed up 4’11” in flip-flops! I’m like, “Ma’am, I ain’t countin’ inches wrong!”

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Then, I get another call. This lady’s yelling about her neighbor’s rooster. “It won’t stop crowing!” she screams. I’m like, “Lady, it’s a rooster. That’s its job!” But she’s not havin’ it. I swear, I could hear the rooster in the background, just cluckin’ away like it owns the place.

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