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Exaggeratin? Maybe. But picture this—me, black mask, wheezin, hagglin with some street queen. “50 credits!” I growl. “80, cape boy!” she snaps. Pure comedy. Still, it’s a mind trip—power, shame, all mixed up. *Fish Tank* nails that—messy, real, no polish. “I’m not your fuckin daughter,” Mia spits. Same energy—nobody owns these girls, not even me.

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Fast forward a bit, I’m at the charcoal pit, right? It’s hot as hell, and I’m sweatin’ like a sinner in church. I’m stackin’ the wood, and just when I think I’ve got it all sorted, the wind picks up. I’m talkin’ hurricane-level gusts! It’s blowin’ ash everywhere, and I’m coughin’ like I’ve just run a marathon.

Kew Gardens says it could lose half its trees due to climate change