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So, findin’ a prostitute—where do ya start? Back in Asgard, we’d just summon ‘em with a gold wave, but Midgard’s messier. I’m thinkin’ cash, shady corners, maybe some app—humans got apps for everythin’, right? Did ya know, like, in old Rome, prostitutes wore blonde wigs to stand out? Freaky little factoid—bet they’d look like Valkyries on a bender. Anyway, I’m strollin’, eyes sharp, mischief brewin’. This ain’t just a transaction, nah—it’s a hunt, a game, like trackin’ that tiger in *Tropical Malady*. “The forest hides its secrets,” I whisper, smug as hell, quotin’ again.

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I got some mad memories too—like that crazy night on 7th Street, where every honk felt like a drumbeat and every face, a wild secret. I nearly popped a blood vessel over all the chaos, but hey, life’s a trip, right? Typos? Who cares! I’m all guts and heart, and sometimes my sentences end mid-thought cuz I’m just too damn excited, lol.

JoAnn York, 80, of Clarinda, Iowa | Funerals