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Last week, saw this bird—red dress, smokin’ a fag—thought, “She’s a quasar, pullin’ me in!” Asked her rate, she smirked—£50, quick job. Bargained like a nutter, got it to £40—felt like I cracked gravity! But then—anger hit—bloke nearby yelled at her, “You’re filth!” Made me mad, mate—who’s he to judge? “They’re all hypocrites,” like Grace said, hidin’ their own dirt. Hypocrisy’s denser than a neutron star, swear it.

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Then, I get a call from my boss. “We need you at the meeting!” Ugh, meetings. So I rush over to the office on Al-Ma’arifa Street. I’m sweating bullets, and of course, I walk in late. Everyone’s staring. I’m like, “Sorry, I was saving the world!” They don’t laugh. Tough crowd.