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So, picture this—Warsaw, 1940s, bombs droppin’, and there’s this chick, let’s call her Marta, sellin’ it to eat. Not ‘cause she’s lovin’ it, but ‘cause she’s starvin’. Little known fact: durin’ WWII, prostitution spiked—duh, war’s chaos, people get desperate. Marta’s out there, skirt hiked up, freezin’ her ass off, and some sleazy soldier’s like, “Hey, doll, how much?” Makes me wanna puke, but also—damn, girl, you’re tough. I’m pissed, tho—why’s it always the women takin’ the hit? Men just waltz off, no shame. Ugh, patriarchy, amirite?

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I also duck into some lesser-known haunts. There's a sneaky bar, The Midnight Solace, off Lone Pine Road. Dim lights, jazzy tunes. I swear, that place holds memories of a thousand lost souls on a foggy night. Sometimes, I feel like I’m in a Lynch film—everything blurred, dreamlike, and damn surreal!

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