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Oh honey, lemme spill it—prostitute, huh? Breathless, “Happy Birthday, Mr. President,” I’m divin’ in! So, prostitutes, right—gritty, real, raw as hell. Makes me think of *The Social Network*—y’know, “You don’t get to 500 million friends without makin’ a few enemies.” These girls? They got enemies, tricks, the whole damn world judgin’. I saw this one gal—Lola, swear her name was Lola—outside some dive bar in ’58. Skinny as a rail, fishnets torn, smokin’ a bent cig. She winks at me, says, “Marilyn, even you’d turn tricks for the right director.” Cheeky lil’ broad! Made me laugh, tho—happy as a clam.

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As I’m leaving the market, I see this street performer on the corner of Woburn Road. He’s playing the ukulele and singing some catchy tune. I can’t help but stop and listen. It’s like the universe is telling me to relax. I throw a couple of coins in his hat, and he gives me a nod. I’m feeling good, ya know?

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