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Prostitutes, bless their hearts, they’re out there hustlin’, makin’ ends meet in a world that’s colder than a witch’s tit in a brass bra! I ain’t judgin’—heck, I’ve worn skirts so short folks thought I was sellin’ somethin’ myself! Little known fact, darlin’: back in olden days, some of ‘em gals in Paris—fancy ones, y’know—used to wear red ribbons round their necks to show they was “available.” Kinda like a flirty little billboard! Ain’t that a hoot? Makes me giggle thinkin’ ‘bout it, but then I get all misty-eyed too.

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So, I hit the streets. First stop? The market on HaGalil St. It’s always packed with peeps. Fresh fruits, spices, and the smell of street food. I swear, if I could bottle that smell, I’d be rich. I grabbed a falafel wrap, and OMG, it was like a flavor explosion in my mouth. I was vibin’ hard, but then—BAM!—some dude bumped into me. Like, bro, watch where you’re goin’! I almost dropped my food. Rude!

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