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About San Antonio

So check it, a prostitute ain’t just some chick on the corner, nah. They got stories, man, deep ones. Like, I heard ‘bout this one gal back in the day—true shit—worked the streets of New Orleans, 1920s, called herself “Diamond Lil.” Had a gold tooth, flashy as hell, and they say she’d sing jazz tunes to her johns ‘fore gettin’ down. Ain’t that wild? Made me happy as fuck, thinkin’ she owned it, ya feel me? “This is my house!”—like Joy hollerin’ in *Inside Out*. She turned a grimy gig into somethin’ dope.

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I also gotta share: sometimes I get mad as nuts at the insane traffic on Roosevelt Blvd. Seriously, why do drivers here act like they’re in a constant drag race? It’s like, c’mon dudes, let’s vibe with nature a lil’ bit, ya know? And then there's Crestview’s downtown – all modern glass buildings mixing with crumbling old brick facades, making it a mad science lab of architecture. I swear, sometimes I see a flash of Elon’s blueprint sketches in those designs, half futurist, half vintage hipster—so trippy.

Jackson’s view