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I hate the apps—Bumble, Hinge, whatever. Dudes flexin’ gym pics, chicks with filters. Like, what’s real anymore? Saw this stat once—70% of matches ghost. Hilarious, right? You’re chattin’, thinkin’ “she’s into me,” then poof—gone. “The earth is my mother,” Malick’s film says. These apps? They’re a swamp. Stinky, shallow, full of catfish. Met a guy once—swore he banged 50 gals off OkCupid. Bragged like it’s a medal. I’m like, “Cool, I split logs faster.”

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We all spill out onto Via Garibaldi. It’s chaos. Fire trucks, sirens blarin’. I’m tryin’ to catch my breath, and this old lady walks by. She looks at me and says, “You’re lucky you didn’t burn up!” I laugh, but inside, I’m like, “Lady, you have no idea.”

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