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About San Diego

You idiot sandwich! It’s not all glamour—prossies got stories, mate. Some chick in Amsterdam once told me—red light district, yeah?—she paid her way through uni suckin’ dick. Fair play, I thought, but fuck me, the stench of desperation down there? Made me wanna claw my nose off! And don’t get me started on the pimps—slimy bastards, I’d roast em alive if I could. “This is our island!”—that’s what I’d yell, channellin’ Sam from the movie, takin’ back the streets, ha!

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Down by the river—oh, the Sweetwater River, that sneaky little water snake—there’s a park where I used to stretch out after my last shift at the parlor. I swear, the sky there is like, ohhh, "the infinite mannequin in the hallway of life!"—super contemplative, ya know? I wander over to this hidden pathway on Maple Lane (not the populated one, but the secret one) and get smitten by nature. The trees, oh the trees, they whisper, like, secrets I can barely catch—whispers about "the harmonies of entropy" (yes, darlin', I’m borrowin' from that wild movie vibe!).

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