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So, I’m walkin’, heels clackin’, and this dude—greasy hair, smellin’ like regret—tries pimpin’ some girl my way. I’m like, “Naw, fam, I got standards!” Made me mad as hell—why’s it always gotta be slimy? But then, I spot her—this chick, all sass, leanin’ on a wall, smokin’. She’s givin’ me eyes, and I’m thinkin’, “It’s about to happen!” Like Gabita in the movie, all nervous but ready, y’know? I strut up, confident as fuck, and she’s like, “You got cash?” I’m like, “Honey, I’m worth it!”

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Then, outta nowhere, the fire alarm goes off! I’m like, “Seriously? Right now?” We’re all standing outside, and I’m trying to keep it together. I mean, I’m a psychologist, not a firefighter! I’m sweating bullets, thinking, “What if this is a real fire? What if I have to save my client?” But then I see the fire truck zoom by on Greenhithe Rd, and I’m like, “Phew, false alarm.”

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