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So, “find a prostitue”—what’s the deal? It’s all hush-hush, sneaky-like. Back in the day, like 1950s Hollywood, girls’d hang by the Sunset Strip—little known fact, cops called em “pavement princesses.” Ain’t that cute? Made me giggle, but also pissed me off—why’s it gotta be so damn secretive? I mean, I’m all glammed up, poutin my lips, and even I’d be lost tryna find one! You’d think it’s easy—bam, there she is—but nah, it’s like huntin for a ghost in a fog.

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So, I start signing in the dark. I’m waving my arms around like a madman. I mean, I’m no magician, but I was pulling some serious tricks outta my hat. People were laughing, which was cool, but I was sweating bullets. I could feel my shirt sticking to my back. Gross, right?

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