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About Los Angeles

So, I’m thinkin’, why not? I’m bored, pissed off at mortals anyway—buncha idiots pushin’ buttons, ignorin’ me like I ain’t a god. Findin’ a prossie sounds like a laugh, a little chaos to stir the pot. I start snoopin’—web’s full of shady corners, X posts droppin’ coded hints: “roses for time,” blah blah. Little known fact? Back in Victorian days, they called ‘em “soiled doves”—poetic, right? Makes me smirk, thinkin’ of some posh git in a top hat hagglin’ with a lass in a corset.

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Now, spillin’ my quirks: I have a habit, a silly one – I count my steps on Blueberry Drive. Crazy, right? Gotta be mindful. Sometimes miss a step, sometimes step too fast. But every footfall is like a drumbeat in that Anatolian trek. “The terrain speaks,” I muse aloud.

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