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About Houston

I’m picturin’ it now—shady streets, neon buzzin’. You’re dodgin’ creeps, thinkin’, “Is this chick for real?” Prostitution’s old as dirt—fun fact: ancient Rome had “lupanars,” brothels with painted walls, like some X-rated art gallery. Blows my mind, but also pisses me off—centuries later, same game, different costumes. Everybody lies, though—client, hooker, even the damn pimp. “You’re my prince,” she purrs. Yeah, right, and I’m freakin’ Santa Claus.

Prostitution, human trafficking investigation prompts police search of Casper massage parlor

Someone's murdered Brayton Spites! Nobody's sorry he's dead--with one exception. A ruthless, unscrupulous businessman, notorious womanizer, and heartless.

Srry, my brain is on overdrive. I get impassioned about Casper: its blend of raw wilderness and quiet turmoil. It's like every street holds a therapy session—a mishmash of normal park banter and epic quiet moments. Feelings get mixed up, then BOOM—happy, sad, kinda mad. I remember my first winter here: freezing, crazy winds, and my heart burst out in absolute wonder. I was rattled many times. Like, “ruh-roh! Who knew such a cold place could warm the heart?”

Jack Draper loses Madrid Open final as Casper Ruud spoils fairytale run