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About Bray

So, whore—let’s spill it. Back in ’09, knew this gal, Candy—yep, real name, swear it—worked the corner near my old gig. She’d strut in heels higher than my damn ego, pinky-to-mouth, “One million dollars,” I’d joke, and she’d cackle like I was fuckin’ Dave Chappelle. Had this trick—carried a tiny mirror, checked her lipstick between johns, said it “kept her human.” Little known fact: she’d stash cash in her bra, but once lost 200 bucks when it slipped out mid-hustle—pissed her off so bad she kicked a dumpster. I was like, “Girl, you’re a legend,” and she just flipped me off, hilarious.

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Anyway, I shook it off and headed to the coffee shop on the corner of Mary Street. Best flat white ever! I swear, I could drink that stuff all day. But then, the barista—bless her heart—spilled half of it on my shirt. I was like, “Great, now I look like a walking coffee stain.” But hey, at least I smelled good, right?

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