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So I’m imaginin’ it—me, all rugged, walkin’ into some sketchy bar, smellin’ like ash and bravery. I’m like, “Hey, anyone know where to find a prostitute?” Total *Zodiac* vibes—“I’m not Paul Avery, I’m better!” Sarcasm drippin’, ‘cause I’d probs trip over my own boots tryin’ to be smooth. Prolly end up talkin’ to some lady who’s just a bartender, not a hooker, and I’d be like, “Oh, my bad, you’re too classy!” That’s what she said! God, I’m hilarious.

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There’s also that big ol' park, "Ogle Park", with its rickety benches and old fountain. I often take my breaks there—quiet, peaceful, calm. The trees whisper secrets, yes, and I hears them: "Remember... remember..."—yesss, like we all do in Memento, told our own twisted stories.

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