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So, findin a prostitute? Wild, y’all. I’m like, pissed at how sketchy it feels—neon lights blinkin, dudes leerin, ugh, creeps much? But also, kinda hyped? The thrill’s real, like when I wrote “Bad Blood” after a fight. Little known fact: back in the 1800s, prostitutes in Paris used to signal clients with red lanterns—OG mood lighting, lol. Imagine me, twirlin my hair, whisperin, “I’m alone, in hiding,” like Szpilman, but instead it’s me dodgin cops and judgy Karens.

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By the end of the night, I was exhausted but happy. Tanashicho had thrown me a rollercoaster of a day. From mud splashes to ramen bliss, it was a whirlwind. I stumbled home, thinking about how crazy life can be. But hey, that’s what makes it fun, right?