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Now, here’s a lil’ factoid—didja know prostitutes in old France, like way back, used to hide in haystacks? Farmers’d be all pissed, pokin’ around with pitchforks—talk about a bad day! Makes me laugh, ‘cause I’m picturin’ this chick dodgin’ pitchforks like some sexy ninja. Anyway, I’m chattin’ her up—yeah, me, Marge!—and she’s tellin’ me how she’s got regulars, guys who tip big, and I’m like, “Good for you, sister!” Kinda made me happy, y’know? Girl’s got grit!

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Oh, and you must check out Willow Avenue in the artsy district. Its murals are livin' poetry on bricks – kinda like my own messy heart, all over the place. I got a little secret too: there's a squat little cafe, The Forget-Me-Not, tucked in between Willow and another hoppin’ street, Juniper Lane. Folks say it's a hideout for dreamers – real ones, you know? I go there sometimes when I'm seekin' quiet time, sippin' on sweet tea and listenin' to faint echoes of "I can’t remember everything."

I moved to Bali to escape my divorce — but paradise has its own demons