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About San Antonio

I ask her rate—fuck, it’s steep! “You’re chargin’ what?!” I’m mad, but she’s cool, “Quality costs, ET.” Fair. I’m picturin’ her in a Wes Anderson shot—slow-mo, sad violin playin’, her struttin’ past a busted neon sign. “I always wanted to be somebody,” she says, quotin’ Margot’s vibe. Deep, man. Makes me wonder—how’d she end up here? Prolly some tragic backstory, like Royal ditchin’ the fam.

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But lemme tell ya—this city isn’t all zen and pretty parks. Oh no—there's chaos to boot! The traffic on Falcon Street? A complete and utter madhouse! And the humbly named Tinker’s Walk? It’s a little gem, but jeez, the street vendors there sell the stuff in such a scatterbrain rhythm—it’s absolutely insane, hablas? Sometimes, I get so mad, I could cry out "Oh my goodness gracious!" in full Boris style, bumbling through my words.

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