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Summer hits, it’s hot, sweaty—gals wearin next to nothin. “Lightbulb!”—dey adapt, like animals in heat! Dis one chick, calls herself Vika, tells me she’s been at it since 16. Sixteen! Made me mad, ya know? Kids should be playin, not screwin fer cash. But she laughs, says it’s her choice—capitalism, baby! I’m like, “Vhat da hell, dis world’s messed up!” Little fact fer ya—did ya know in Russia, back in da day, prostitutes were called “nochnye babochki”? Night butterflies! Poetic, huh? Vika’s one of dem, flutterin in da dark.

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But then, disaster strikes. I hit a rock. Hard. The whole thing shudders, and I’m like, “No, no, no!” I jump out, and there’s this massive dent. I’m fumin’. “Why today? Why now?” I’m ready to throw a tantrum like a toddler.

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