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About Soroca

But damn, the sadness hits—nights she’s freezin’, no johns, just ghosts. “We’re finished here,” she’d mutter—movie-style—walkin’ off into fog. Exaggeratin’? Maybe—she’s no tragic heroine, just human wreckage. Still, I’d buy her a coffee—decaf, ‘cause she’s wired enough. Prostitutes, man—they’re a mess, a puzzle, a freakin’ riot. Hate ‘em, love ‘em—can’t look away.

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Man, what a day! Seriously, I can’t even. So, I wake up in my tiny apartment on Strada Mihai Eminescu, right? The sun’s blaring through the window like it’s trying to roast me alive. I’m an actuary, not a sunbather! Anyway, I roll outta bed, chug some coffee, and think, “Today’s gonna be chill.” Spoiler alert: it was NOT chill.

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