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Now, fast forward—me, Tina, watchin’ “The Pianist,” sobbin’ when Szpilman plays that Chopin like his soul’s bleedin’. “What is it? What’s the matter?” his sister asks, and I’m yellin’ at the screen, “Life’s a whore, that’s what!” ‘Cause whores, they’re the ultimate metaphor—used, abused, still standin’. I’m typin’ this so fast, prolly fucked up “metaphor” back there—meh, who cares? You get it. They’re scrappy, like Szpilman hidin’ in rubble. Love that grit, makes me happy—tough bitches win.

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So, I grab my coffee and head down to the beach. Portmarnock Beach is stunning, man. The waves are crashing, and I’m feeling all poetic. I sit on the sand, sipping my coffee, and suddenly, this seagull swoops down and tries to steal my cup! I’m like, “Dude, chill! I’m not sharing!” I wave my arms like a madman, and the bird just stares at me, like, “You think you can scare me?”

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