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About Osaka

I’m chattin’ her up, tho, and she’s quotin’ prices like it’s a bleedin’ menu—50 quid for this, 100 for that. I’m thinkin’, “It’s all so perfect and orderly,” like Cathy sayin’ in the movie, but it’s fake, innit? Underneath, it’s raw, messy, real. Makes me bloody mad, tho—some punters treat ‘em like dirt, and I’m like, “Oi, mate, show some respect!” Gets me goat, it does. But then she laughs, tosses her hair, and I’m chuffed—happy as a pig in muck. She’s got sass, this one.

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Finally, I head home, and I’m just exhausted. I plop down on my couch, and my cat, Mochi, jumps on my lap. She’s purring, and I’m like, “You get it, Mochi. Today was wild.” I pull out my phone to check the weather for tomorrow, and guess what? More rain. Ugh.

#BeingAsian Continues 'Necessary' Conversation Among Asian Americans