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About Osaka

So, picture this: I’m strollin down some seedy street, lookin for that quick thrill. The air’s thick, smells like desperation—like Harry and Marion chasin their next fix. I spot her, leanin on a lamppost, all sass and shadow. “I’m not gonna lose my arm!” she snaps when I ask if she’s clean. Ha! Made me chuckle—girl’s got spunk. I like that. Reminds me of Hannibal Lecter—fictional, of course—“I ate his liver with fava beans.” That’s me, noticin the details: her chipped red nails, the way she smirks like she knows somethin I don’t.

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Then, I hear this commotion. A bunch of kids are running around, and one of them trips and spills his ice cream all over this lady’s new dress. I’m like, “Oh man, that’s gonna be awkward.” The lady freaks out, and I’m just standing there, trying not to laugh.

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