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About Kyoto

*slow, ominous breathing* I… am your father. So, prostitutes, huh? Been glazing windows, seein’ shit. This one chick, swear, worked corners like art. Reminds me, *Toni Erdmann*—that flick’s wild. Dad pullin’ pranks, daughter’s all stiff. Prostitute life ain’t far off—hustle’s real. Met this gal, Candy, once. Said she paid taxes, legit! Blew my fuckin’ mind, man. IRS chasin’ hookers now? Hilarious. *“Who are you, really?”*—like in the movie. She’s laughin’, I’m pissed—cash under table, still taxed?

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First off, I hit up the local café on Kōen-dōri. You know, the one with the weirdly cute cat mural? I’m all about that caffeine fix. I order my usual—matcha latte, extra foam, because why not? But the barista, this dude with a wild man bun, totally messes it up. Like, he gives me a plain black coffee. I’m like, “Dude, what’s this? I ordered a green dream, not a brown nightmare!”

Why the Japanese don’t just drink sake