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Real talk—findin’ a prostitute ain’t no picnic. Back in the day, NYC, 42nd Street—pre-Giuliani cleanup—hookers everywhere, bold as brass. Little known fact: some’d use secret hand signals, like my job! Flick a wrist, tilt a head—boom, deal’s on. I’d be signin’ back, “What’s the rate, lady?”—total pro move. But now? It’s all online, Craigslist is dead, apps are king. Sketchy as hell—makes me wanna scream! What if I accidentally swipe right on my cousin? Disaster!

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So, I’m walking down the street, trying to shake it off. Beppu’s got this crazy mix of old and new. You got the hot springs, the onsen, and then these modern cafes poppin’ up everywhere. I love it, but it’s like, can’t we just keep it chill? Anyway, I’m heading to my spot in the hills, and I pass by the Beppu Tower. That thing is like a giant toothpick sticking outta the ground. I always think, “Who thought this was a good idea?”

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