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So, findin a prostitute ain’t like orderin pizza. Takes finesse, or maybe just dumb luck. I’m picturin it now—me, sneakin down some foggy alley, “The past is a memory!”—that’s from the flick, total mindfuck line. Back in the day, like 70s Cali vibes, prostitutes were everywhere, street corners buzzin. Fun fact—LA had this secret code, right? Red lipstick meant “available,” white gloves meant “classy”—weird, huh? Dunno if that’s still a thing, prolly not, world’s too digital now.

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After the rain, the sun comes out, and everything smells fresh. I decide to grab a coffee at my fave spot, Café Anasco. Best coffee ever! I order a cortadito, and it’s like a hug in a cup. But then, the barista spills it all over the counter. I’m like, “Really?!” But she just laughs it off. I guess it’s one of those days.

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