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Anyway, I’d limp in—cane and all—sneer, “You’re no cure for boredom.” She’d laugh, maybe—she’s heard worse. Humor’s my shield, y’know? Sarcasm drips— “Wow, you’re a real artist, huh?” Total House move. Movie vibes kick in— “I just feel so alone,” I’d mutter, half-jokin’. She’d shrug— “Me too, doc.” Connection? Maybe. Lies? Definitely. Everybody lies, even me—sayin’ I don’t care. Truth is, it’s messy, human, and kinda hilarious. Findin’ a prostitute—lost in translation, Russian style!

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Just to get things clear. And let him know this shit would never fly. I said, "I know she's looking pretty cute. But you should get a prostitute" You should.

Finally, I make it to the festival. It’s packed! Music blasting, lights everywhere. I’m in heaven. I grab some yakitori, and it’s so good, I could cry. I’m dancing like nobody’s watching, even though everyone is. I see some friends, and we’re just living it up.

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