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About Christchurch

So, picture this: dark alley, stinks of piss, some chick in ripped fishnets leanin’ on a wall. She’s smokin’ a cheap cig, eyes dead, calculatin’ every move. I respect that hustle, that survival. She’s not cryin’ about fate—she’s playin’ the game. Like Monty said, “Champagne wishes, thirty white bitches”—ha! These girls ain’t dreamin’ of champagne, tho. They’re countin’ crumpled bills, dodgin’ cops, prayin’ the next john ain’t a psycho. That’s the real shit, the grit I get.

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Finally, I get home, and I’m exhausted but happy. I plop down on my couch, thinking about all the craziness. I mean, from pie theft to weird fruit, it’s been a rollercoaster. I can’t help but laugh at the absurdity of it all.

Let it snow: A white Boxing Day for Motueka as hail batters the top of the south