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What gets my goat, though, is how folks judge it so quick. I mean, sure, it ain’t Sunday school, but these people got bills, same as you and me! I read once—prolly on some shady corner of the internet—that back in old-timey France, courtesans were like rockstars. High-class escorts hobnobbin’ with kings! Ain’t that a hoot? Makes ya wonder who’s really runnin’ the show. Still, I get all misty thinkin’ ‘bout the ones who don’t got no choice—kinda like Llewyn, stuck in a loop, singin’ “Hang me, oh hang me,” ‘cept it’s life weighin’ ‘em down.

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So, I’m out there, heart racin’, and the bull charges. I dodge left, then right. I’m like a matador ninja! But then, I trip over my own feet. Classic me, right? The crowd gasps. I’m on the ground, and the bull’s just lookin’ at me like, “Really, dude?” I scramble up, and the crowd’s laughin’. I’m embarrassed but also kinda laughing at myself.

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