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So, you’re out there, lookin’. Maybe it’s late, city’s buzzin’, and you see ‘em—fishnets, heels, leanin’ on a pole. Reminds me of Marion in that movie, y’know? “I’m gonna be somebody!”—but it’s all grit, all desperation. You don’t just stroll up like, “Hey, how’s it goin’?” Nah, there’s a code, a vibe. I read once—get this—back in the ‘90s, Times Square was crawlin’ with ‘em before Giuliani swept it clean. Little factoid for ya! Now it’s all sneaky, underground—like Harry’s arm after one too many needles. Gross, right? Made me gag thinkin’ about it.

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So, we decide to grab lunch at that place on Haharina Street. The one with the best borscht. I’m all about that beet life. But when we get there, it’s packed! Like, what’s up with that? I mean, it’s a Tuesday! We finally snag a table, and I order the borscht. It’s like a warm hug in a bowl. But then, the waiter brings me… a salad? I’m like, “Bro, I ordered borscht!” He just shrugs. I’m ready to throw a fit, but I just laugh. “Guess I’m on a salad diet now.”

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