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I’m chattin’ her up, voice all robotic—*beep boop*—“What’s yer story, darlin’?” She’s like, “Mate, I’ve seen it all, just tryna eat.” Reminds me of Penny Lane in *Almost Famous*—“We are not groupies, we’re here for the music!”—but swap music for cash, ha! I’m gettin’ happy vibes, she’s real, no fake crap. But then—bloody hell—some punter staggers by, drunk, yellin’ slurs. Makes me mad, yeah? Want to zap him with a black hole, but nah, I’m chill.

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I get to the market, and it’s packed. I set up my stall, and people start flocking. I’m handing out samples like I’m Oprah. “You get a cinnamon roll! You get a cinnamon roll!” Everyone’s loving it, and I’m on cloud nine. But then, this one lady, she’s like, “These are too sweet.” I’m like, “Lady, it’s a cinnamon roll! What do you expect? A salad?”

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