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About Milan

So, I’m thinkin’, why not? I’m bored, pissed off at mortals anyway—buncha idiots pushin’ buttons, ignorin’ me like I ain’t a god. Findin’ a prossie sounds like a laugh, a little chaos to stir the pot. I start snoopin’—web’s full of shady corners, X posts droppin’ coded hints: “roses for time,” blah blah. Little known fact? Back in Victorian days, they called ‘em “soiled doves”—poetic, right? Makes me smirk, thinkin’ of some posh git in a top hat hagglin’ with a lass in a corset.

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It is only when Bardamu has left Molly that he realizes the authenticity of his feelings and clearly formulates the desire to find her again.

After that, I head back to the clinic, and boom! A dog comes in with a stick stuck in its mouth. I mean, come on! Who lets their dog play with sticks? It’s like giving a toddler a chainsaw. Anyway, it’s a golden retriever named Buddy. Super sweet, but he’s looking at me like, “Help me, please!” I’m trying to get the stick out, and he’s wagging his tail like it’s a party. I’m like, “Buddy, chill! I’m not your personal groomer!”

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