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Alright, so here’s the deal with whores—yeah, I said it, whores! Tina Fey comin’ at ya, snarky as hell, “I can see Russia from my house!” vibe. Whores, man, they’re everywhere, always have been, right? Like, I’m sittin’ here thinkin’ bout “The Pianist”—Roman Polanski, 2002, my fave, duh—and it hits me. Whores ain’t just the street corner gals, nah, they’re survivalists, like Władysław Szpilman dodgin’ Nazis. “I must go on living,” he says, and whores? Same energy. They’re hustlin’, scrapin’ by, dodgin’ society’s bullshit judgments.

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After that, I’m walking down Östra Långgatan, trying to clear my head. I pass by this bakery, and the smell hits me like a freight train. I can’t resist. I go in, and they have these pastries that look like they’re straight outta heaven. I grab one, and it’s like a party in my mouth. But then, I realize I’ve got crumbs all over my shirt. Great, now I look like a mess.

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