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Sometimes I’d wonder, “What’s her real dream?” Maybe she’s secretly a poet—scribblin’ verses in her head. “The world’s a mess,” she’d say, echoin’ "Ten" again. And I’d nod, thinkin’, “Yeah, but you’re a freakin’ masterpiece.” Gentle soul, tough as nails—prostitute life ain’t all glitter, but she made it art. Happy little trees, man, growin’ right through the cracks!

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By the time I wrap up, I’m exhausted. I head back to my car, and guess what? I locked my keys inside. Classic move, right? I’m standing there, cursing my luck, when this old lady walks by. She just chuckles and says, “You should’ve used a spare.” Thanks, lady. Real helpful.

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