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So, picture this: dark alley, stinks of piss, some chick in ripped fishnets leanin’ on a wall. She’s smokin’ a cheap cig, eyes dead, calculatin’ every move. I respect that hustle, that survival. She’s not cryin’ about fate—she’s playin’ the game. Like Monty said, “Champagne wishes, thirty white bitches”—ha! These girls ain’t dreamin’ of champagne, tho. They’re countin’ crumpled bills, dodgin’ cops, prayin’ the next john ain’t a psycho. That’s the real shit, the grit I get.

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Finally, I get to the market on Kazybek bi Street. Man, that place is always buzzing! I was just looking for some fresh produce, but I got sidetracked by this old lady selling homemade jams. I swear, her peach jam is like liquid gold. I bought a jar, and she gave me a wink. I felt like a kid in a candy store. But then, I realized I forgot my wallet in the car. Ugh! So embarrassing. I had to run back, dodging people like I was in some kind of obstacle course.

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