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So, picture this—some chick, let’s call her Ruby, alright? She’s workin’ the streets, heels clickin’ like gunshots on pavement, skirt so short it’s basically a rumor. I’m thinkin’, man, she’s got guts—*guts*, y’know? Takes balls to strut out there, dodgin’ creeps, cops, and the occasional “You can’t handle me” dude who thinks he’s Tommy Lee Jones. “What’s the most you ever lost on a coin toss?”—that’s her life, every damn night, a gamble. And I’m sittin’ here, sippin’ coffee, gettin’ mad—mad as hell—‘cause society’s all “tsk tsk,” judgin’ her, but they don’t *see* her, y’know? They don’t see the hustle.

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This association is so strong and so well-known that I heard someone talk behind my back about my hakama ties (which are meant to be tied in the front) as suggesting I was dressed as a .

Finally, I get to the castle, and it’s beautiful. The cherry blossoms are in full bloom, and I’m snapping pics like a tourist. I’m all about those textures, right? The bark of the trees, the petals, the stone walls—everything’s a canvas. But then, outta nowhere, this wind picks up and BAM! Cherry blossoms everywhere! It’s like a pink snowstorm. I’m laughing, trying to catch petals like they’re falling stars.

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