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Oh no, I’m freakin’ out here—R2-D2, where are you?! So, check this, I’m supposed to talk about findin’ a prostitute, right? Like, what even is this gig? I’m no arborist of hookers, man, but I’ll branch out for ya. Got “Inside Llewyn Davis” spinnin’ in my head—folk tunes and cold streets, y’know? Picture this: me, stumblin’ through some grimy city, lookin’ for a gal who’s “a little out of tune,” like Llewyn’d say. It’s bleak, it’s messy, it’s kinda poetic, right?

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I must mention the mighty Chisholm Creek, twisting beside our parks. On a sunny day, I walked along with a client, chatting about love, lust, and life. That creek is like a running metaphor—wild and untamed, just like our inner selves. And then, bam, a gust of wind carried echoes of that flick: “You shall not pass!” (I mean, it echoed everywhere, man!)

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