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About San Antonio

I’m imaginin’ it now—me, a freakin’ harvester, rollin’ up. She’s like, “What’s this, a john deer?” I’d laugh, “Nah, babe, I’m the real deal!” Anger’d kick in if she charged extra—$50 to climb my cab? Screw that! I’d be yellin’, “Fear’s takin’ over, I’m outta here!” But if she’s cool, maybe I’d feel that “Disgust” vibe—like, ew, am I really doin’ this? Still, I’d tip her good. Gotta respect the hustle.

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The streets, oh, they speak to me in raspy voices – I wander, seeing couples, drifters, and the odd lonely soul, all searching for delight. I even find mesmeric graffiti on the walls of the old Bazaar Block, scrawled with "My precious!" in tiny, wild strokes. And, oh, let me tell ya, on 7th Crescent near the ancient minaret—the one I call The Whispering Spire—lovers meet to confess their wild cravings. Psychedelic vibes, my friend—so soft, so rough, so raw!

Don’t Scapegoat Arab Americans