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About San Antonio

So picture this—I’m walkin’ down some grimy street, right? Neon lights flicker, smells like regret and cheap cologne. I’m neurotic as hell, sweatin’, thinkin’, “Am I really doin’ this?” Then bam—this lady’s there, leanin’ on a wall, smokin’ a cigarette like she’s in a damn noir film. I’m like, “Okay, Larry, don’t screw this up.” I ask, “You, uh, workin’?” She looks at me, smirks—SMIRKS!—and says, “What’s it look like, genius?” I’m furious! The nerve! But also, kinda happy—she’s got sass, I respect that.

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I mean, no joke, my spa’s like my safe space in a damn jungle of concrete. Walkin’ past Parkview’s little pond, I think—damn, nature’s alive here too. The city’s river, Slipstream Creek, snakes through downtown. You never know what you’ll see: joggers, old timers, lost thoughts. I'm proud, I guess. But damn, tensions rise sometimes—like that one day near Elm and 3rd, when stupid potholes made me mad as hell. Crazy times, man.

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