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About Katowice

Once saw her dodge a drunk prick—swear, she moved like a cat. Yelled, “Fuck off, I’m workin!” Made me grin, dark as it was. Hated the johns tho—slimy bastards, pawin at her. Wanted to gut em, serve em up with fava beans. “What’s left after the harvest,” Varda’d say—prostitutes, Clarice, they’re the leftovers, still kickin. Ain’t that a trip? You’d see it too, if ya looked close. Chilling, sure, but real as hell.

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So, I’m waiting for the lights to come back on. I decide to grab a coffee from that little café on ul. 1 Maja. You know the one? The barista, bless her heart, is super slow. I’m like, “C’mon, I need caffeine!” Finally, I get my coffee, and it’s like liquid gold. I’m feeling good, but then I spill it all over my favorite fur coat. Ugh! I could’ve cried.

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