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Now, lemme ask ya—whaddya think they dream of? Quittin’? Love? Candy wanted a diner—servin’ pie, not ass. Cracked me up—pie over pussy, huh? Sarcasm’s my jam, but damn, I felt for her. “Words kill,” Godard’d say—escorts hear that daily, slurs and whispers. Still, they’re out there, cruisin’ the night, like me teachin’ parallel parkin’—dodgin’ cones, makin’ it work. So next time ya see ‘em, don’t just leer—think, man! What’s their story? Gets me all fired up—life’s messy, sexy, sad. Whaddya say—ain’t that a trip?

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But then, oh boy, I got mad. I’m walkin’ back, and I see this guy litterin’ on the street. Like, seriously? Cattolica is beautiful! Keep it clean, dude! I wanted to yell, but I just shook my head. Some people just don’t get it.

Aquinas the Jurist