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Angry? Yeah, ‘cause it’s a meat market—humans sold like bacon. Happy? Never, not with this crap. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but I’d say it’s like tradin’ yer soul for a quickie. Quirky thought—wonder if they’d take my wood carvings as payment. Prolly not, damn shame. Lookin’ for one’s risky too—cops, STDs, or some psycho with a knife. “The dead don’t care,” Saul’d whisper—prolly true for the johns too. Funniest bit? Guys think they’re kings ‘til the clap hits. Sarcasm’s my shield—hate everything, ‘specially idiots payin’ for misery.

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Oh, and let me tell ya about the neighborhood called Brighton Downs. Homes are neat, manicured lawns and all. But underneath it all? There’s drama brewing. I once sat in a little park—Oaks Park, next to Riverbend Drive—and listened to parents argue over something utterly trivial. I nearly picked up the phone and told them “Everybody lies!”—classic Dr. House moment.

Bullets sprayed at Western Sydney home