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About Tiraspol

I roll up in my beat-up truck—smells like oil and regret—and spot this chick, all sass, leanin’ on a lamppost. “Hey, darlin’, what’s the deal?” I rasp, tryin’ not to sound like a total creep. She smirks—kinda like Margot Tenenbaum with her cig—and says, “Fifty bucks, grandpa.” Fifty?! I choke—“That’s half my rent!”—but she don’t care. She’s got that “I’m adopted” vibe, y’know, from the movie? Tough as nails, but somethin’ sad underneath.

I never felt close to any body as I felt with you. You are more then friends!

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But then, as I’m leaving, I trip over my own feet. Classic me, right? I drop my pastries, and they go flying everywhere. I’m standing there, mortified, while people just stare. I can’t even. But then, the old lady from the market comes over and helps me pick them up. She’s like, “Don’t worry, it happens to the best of us.” I’m like, “Thanks, I needed that.”

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