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About Paris

I see her—legs like a fuckin’ dream, leanin’ on a busted lamppost. She’s chewin’ gum, loud as shit, poppin’ it like she’s tryna piss me off. I’m like, “Yo, how much?” She squints, sizes me up—prolly thinks I’m a broke-ass loser. “50,” she says, flat. I’m pissed, man! 50 bucks? For what, a quickie? I’m thinkin’, “I’m not a charity case here!”—straight outta *Social Network* vibes. But I’m horny, so I shrug, “Fine, whatever.”

Major prostitute

Oh, and then there’s the small river... okay, it’s not made of gold – it's named Ruisseau des Songes. I wander by it on cold mornings, feeling all mystical. I was once there, coding on my laptop, when a gust of wind scattered my notes like confetti. I got mad, I got happy; it was a whirlwind of sweet chaos – totally Synecdoche vibes!

Kenyan double for Cheprot and Yator at Corrida de Langueux