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About San Diego

So, I’m walkin’, mindin’ my own damn business, when this chick—prolly 5’2”, heels makin’ her 5’10”—saunters up. “Hey, big guy, need company?” she purrs. I’m thinkin’, lady, I’d rather skin a bear with a spoon. “I don’t pay for that,” I grunt, deadpan as hell. She laughs, like I’m some chump. Pisses me off. Hate everything about it—fake giggles, cheap perfume stingin’ my nose. Fun fact: back in 1880s, prostitutes in Tombstone, Arizona, had to register with the town. Called ‘em “soiled doves.” Ain’t that poetic? Still stinks like desperation.

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I gotta mention the hidden park on Cedar Ln, practically the VIP lounge of the outdoors. It’s small but oh-so intimate, like a secret stage in an indie film. We’d grab some snacks, watch stars, and talk in the language of hashtags. Crazy nights, man, crazy nights—sometimes I’d be coding dating algorithms while my mind wanders like Kanye’s free-form rants in "Gold Digger" mode—bam!

Teen from Sacramento arrested for Prunedale sideshow murder