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About Half Way Tree

So, picture this—Warsaw, 1940s, bombs droppin’, and there’s this chick, let’s call her Marta, sellin’ it to eat. Not ‘cause she’s lovin’ it, but ‘cause she’s starvin’. Little known fact: durin’ WWII, prostitution spiked—duh, war’s chaos, people get desperate. Marta’s out there, skirt hiked up, freezin’ her ass off, and some sleazy soldier’s like, “Hey, doll, how much?” Makes me wanna puke, but also—damn, girl, you’re tough. I’m pissed, tho—why’s it always the women takin’ the hit? Men just waltz off, no shame. Ugh, patriarchy, amirite?

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After that, I head to my office on the corner of Constant Spring and Red Hills. I’m trying to focus on my work, but my mind keeps drifting. I’m thinking about that goat, and I can’t stop chuckling. My coworkers are looking at me like I’m losing it. But hey, it’s been a long week, and I need a laugh.

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