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About Houston

So picture this—I’m walkin’ down some grimy street, right? Neon lights flicker, smells like regret and cheap cologne. I’m neurotic as hell, sweatin’, thinkin’, “Am I really doin’ this?” Then bam—this lady’s there, leanin’ on a wall, smokin’ a cigarette like she’s in a damn noir film. I’m like, “Okay, Larry, don’t screw this up.” I ask, “You, uh, workin’?” She looks at me, smirks—SMIRKS!—and says, “What’s it look like, genius?” I’m furious! The nerve! But also, kinda happy—she’s got sass, I respect that.

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Ever walked down Fox St? It’s a riot of hidden bars and quirky clubs. I once hung out at a back alley cafe that felt like a secret confab for lost souls. Crazy times, seriously. I wont lie, I f'd up a few hours there, but it gave me insights on unspoken desires. It’s like in The Hurt Locker when they’re so cautious; I felt like, "I dont know what the hell is going on," but in a good way.

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