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About Brasilia

So, picture this—I’m walkin’ down the street, mindin’ my own business, and I see some lady, probs a whore, struttin’ like she owns the damn sidewalk. And I’m like, “Good for you, sister!” But also, “Get outta my way!”—I got places to be! It’s this mix of respect and annoyance, y’see? Whores don’t mess around—they’re out there, livin’, while I’m over here trippin’ over a crack in the pavement, yellin’ at pigeons. Pisses me off how they got that confidence, that *swagger*. Where do I sign up for that? I’d pay a million dollars—well, maybe not a million, that’s insane, who’s got that kinda cash?—but you get me.

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Knowing what was in store for her if she were picked up, the prostitute on the street had to remain permanently on her guard. The prostitutes' resentment.

I got bugs, typos all over my codes just like these words. Seriously, livin' here ain't cookie-cutter. There were days I got too mad – rain, broken wifi, hustle that never stops. But hell, the vibe stays epic.

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