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About New York City

But then—ugh—some pimp rolls up. Greasy hair, gold chain, struttin’ like he’s king. Hate showoffs. “You pay me first,” he snaps. I’m like, “Buddy, I pay the lady.” He gets in my face, breath like a landfill. Reminds me of Cathy’s husband, Frank, all bluster and lies. “I’m trying so hard to please you,” Frank’d whine. Please me? Shove off, slick. I shove this pimp instead—hard. He stumbles, Candy cheers. Felt good, real good.

The Complicated Sexual History of David Bowie

Also, I’ve got this secret little spot by the Bowie River – a sort of abandoned dock area where you can chill out late at night. It’s hidden, super quiet, and, like, totally perfect to reflect on life or like, cry or LOL at some funny texts on the app. I literally sat there one night, thinking “I drink your milkshake!” out loud, just for the heck of it – lol, I know, right?

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