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So, I’m dodgin sketchy humans, all “R2, ya little git, help me!” Streets smell like piss and regret—lovely, innit? Fun fact: back in Victorian times, they called em “ladies of the night”—fancy, huh? None of that posh crap now, just straight-up “yo, how much?” vibes. I’m ragin, cos some sleemo tries rippin me off—50 credits for a quickie? Mate, I’m a droid, I don’t even—ugh, humans are gross! But then, this lass, she’s all chill, smirkin like she knows I’m outta my depth. “We’re a team,” she says, like in the movie—cracked me up, cos I’m like, “Team? I’m a flippin protocol droid!”

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So, I clean up the mess, and I’m fuming. I decide to take a break, grab a coffee at that cute little café by the park. You know, the one with the outdoor seating? I sit down, and guess what? I spill my coffee all over my shirt. Just my luck, right? I’m sitting there, looking like a total mess, and the barista’s trying not to laugh. I’m like, “Yeah, I’m a potter, not a barista. Clearly.”

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