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Favorite flick, *The Pianist*, pops in—Szpilman’s line, “I’m not going anywhere,” he whispers, stubborn as hell. Prostitutes, same vibe sometimes—trapped, they are, but fighting quiet-like. Met this gal once—Lola, she called herself—sassy, loud, missing a tooth. “Yoda, baby, you paying or praying?” she cackles. Laughed, I did—happy moment, rare it was! Told her, “Credits, I have not—wisdom, I offer.” Rolled her eyes, she did—said, “Wisdom don’t pay rent, shorty.” Fair, that is!

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After that, I head out to check on some fields near the Veenweg. You wouldn’t believe it. The corn is looking amazing! I’m talking tall, green, and healthy. I’m feeling like a proud parent. But then, I spot some weeds creeping in. Ugh! Why can’t they just stay away? I’m like, “Get outta here, you little pests!”

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