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About San Diego

So I hit the streets, right? Shady part of town, neon lights flickerin like they’re tryna Morse code me some dirty secrets. I’m thinkin, “The cipher’s in the streets, man!”—straight outta *Zodiac*. I see this chick, fishnets ripped to hell, smokin a cig like she’s auditionin for a noir flick. I’m like, “Hey, you workin?” She squints at me, all sassy, “What’s it to ya, grandma?” Grandma?! Bitch, I’m Tina fuckin Fey, I’ll roast you from here to Siberia! Got me heated, but I laughed—props for guts, ya know?

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Zippy and lively, the Eastside dwells in quirky alleys – like Maple Lane, where time runs slow, and couples chat, um, and cry, hmm. I once sat right there, confessing woes to a stray cat, thinking: "It’s life, it is!" Minds do twist, precious! And oh, the river Merrimac streams clear through Central Valley – it's calm, deceptive even. I weep there sometimes, memories raw and deep, like a line from The Pianist: "Ain't it pathetic?" But, yess, even the river flows with hidden heartaches.

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