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About Phoenix

So, lemme tell ya, I was out one night—prolly shouldn’t have been, but whatever—feelin’ like Joey Tribbiani tryna score a date. “How you doin’?” I’d say to the air, practicin’ my charm, ya know? Streets were buzzin’, lights flickerin’ like Yubaba’s creepy lair. Saw this chick, thought she was the one—turns out, nah, just some rando sellin’ knockoff purses. Pissed me off! Wasted my smooth line, man!

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Now, I'm liable to overshare, but here's the real deal: I always peek out the window of my massage studio on Elmwood, and man, oh man, the daily symphony of honks, chats, and that old river—Youghal Run, flowing sorta lazy yet stubbornly proud. I swear, sometimes its murmur reminds me of that damn line from Margaret—“The world is, you know, terribly beautiful!” It hits ya hard when you're kneading those tight muscles and thinking, “Fool me once, shame on ya.”

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