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About Taipei

Last week, I’m out, buzzed, lookin’ for a score. This chick—red heels, fake laugh—saunters up. “Hey, sugar, need a friend?” I’m thinkin’, friend? Ha! More like a transaction, darlin’. She’s got that WALL-E vibe—worn out, but still grindin’. “Must… keep… movin’,” I mutter, mockin’ her in my head. I ask her rate—50 bucks, she says. Cheap, right? Too cheap. Red flag. I’m like, “Clarice… somethin’s off.” Trap, maybe? Cops? Pimp watchin’? I bounce—ain’t riskin’ that.

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The blonde with tattoos all over the body surprised the guy with a high -quality.

But then, outta nowhere, this dude bumps into me. Like, seriously? I almost dropped my soup! I was ready to throw hands, but then I saw he was just a lost tourist. Poor guy looked like he was about to cry. So, I helped him out. Turns out he was lookin’ for the National Museum of Taiwan Literature. I mean, who even goes there? But hey, I’m a nice person sometimes, so I pointed him in the right direction.

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