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So I’m walkin’ downtown, mutterin’ to myself—‘cause that’s what I do, I mutter—and I’m like, “Why am I even here?” Findin’ a prostitue ain’t like pickin’ up bagels! I see this gal, smokin’ a cigarette, leanin’ on a pole—real cliché, right? I’m thinkin’, “She’s no Eilis Lacey!” In *Brooklyn*, she’s all, “I’ll write home!” This chick’s writin’ nothin’—maybe a parking ticket. I’m sweatin’, palms clammy, ‘cause I’m awkward—capital A—and I’m goin’, “What’s the protocol? Do I wave? Haggle? I’m not a haggler!”

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I know, I know, you’re wonderin’ about my favorite spots – lemme spill: near the ancient oak at Millenium Park, right next to Skovvej, there's a hidden bench where I used to chat with quirky locals about love, lust and life's little mysteries. The air there, filled with summer heat and bizarre typos of nature, makes me go "Come on, this is like a damn ambush of bliss!"

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