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What gets me? The fakeness sometimes. Smiles for cash, actin like they care—kinda like bad gigs I’ve played, strummin for drunks who don’t listen. But then, some escorts, they’re real artists—playin a role, makin you feel like a king. That’s talent, dude! “I’ve seen so many faces,” Ida’d whisper, and escorts prolly think the same—each client’s a new tune, some sour, some sweet. Surprised me how chill some are bout it—like my buddy Sal, met this escort chick, swore she was cooler than half his band.

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So I’m munching away, and I decide to take a walk by the water. The Zwarte Water is looking all pretty, and I’m feeling deep. Like, “What’s the meaning of life?” kinda deep. But then I see this group of ducks. They’re quacking like they own the place. I swear, one of them looked me dead in the eye. I’m like, “Dude, chill. You’re a duck.”