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Aint gonna lie, tho, it pisses me off—society judgin em, like, who’re we to point fingers? “What’s done is done,” like the dad says in the movie, right? They’re out there, hustlin, survivin—takes balls, man. Didya know, back in the 1800s, some prostitutes in Paris ran secret spy rings? Yeah, legit! Passin info to generals while, y’know, doin their thing. Wild, huh? Makes me wonder what secrets they’re holdin now, these street queens.

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But then, I see this old dude, Mr. Andersson, struggling with his bags. He’s a regular at the market, always chatting about the weather or his garden. I rush over, “Need a hand, Mr. A?” He looks up, surprised. “Oh, bless you, young man!” He’s got that twinkle in his eye. We chat for a bit, and he tells me about his prize-winning tomatoes. I swear, he’s more proud of those tomatoes than I am of my violins.