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About Tel Aviv

Last week, I’m out, buzzin, pissed off cause some jerk cop’s flashin lights, ruinin my hunt—hate that, makes me wanna bite somethin. Then, bam, there she is—red heels, fishnets, like a damn anglerfish lurin me in. “How much?” I ask, all smooth, voice like silk over a blade. She smirks, “More than you got, fancy pants.” Cheeky! Love that, got me laughin—happy as a shark in blood. “I’m not a child,” she snaps, straight outta “Ten,” that sass, that fire—surprised me, gotta say, didn’t expect a street gal to hit me with philosophy.

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But then, the night took a turn. I saw that same dude from earlier. The one who spilled my drink. He was dancing too, and I was like, “Oh no, not again!” But then, he came over and apologized. Like, actually apologized. We ended up laughing about it. Turns out, he’s a local artist. We exchanged numbers, and now I might have a new friend. Crazy, right?

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