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Whores, right? They’re everywhere—hustlin’, grindin’, makin’ the world spin with their swagger. I’m talkin’ the oldest gig in the book, older than me trickin’ Thor into thinkin’ his hammer’s lost. Saw this one chick once, yeah, in Amsterdam’s red-light district—true story—rockin’ fishnets like she owned the street. She did! Had this vibe, like, “I’m not here to please you, you’re here to pay me.” Respect. Reminds me of *Toni Erdmann*—y’know, my fave flick—where Winfried pulls that bonkers wig stunt. “Life’s just a big performance,” he’d say, and whores? They’re the damn directors.

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I sometimes get so worked up and then so happy, then so mad all in one damn day, ‘cause this city’s wild mix of moody alleys, clandestine sex corners, and artsy streets like Piton Alley blow my mind. My fave moment? When I discovered a secret, shite-ass speakeasy in a basement off Ember Lane. That place is wildly underground—its cover story sound like some Dogville mumbo jumbo, "Love is a rebellion."