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About Philadelphia

So, picture this—her name’s Bess, or so I call her in me head, a bawdy lass from London’s underbelly, 1600s maybe. She’s no prim rose, nah, but a wild weed, bloomin’ where she oughtn’t. Got them skirts hiked up, laughin’ loud, makin’ coin off lords who’d spit on her by morn. I see her, struttin’ past the Globe—aye, Shakespeare’s own haunt—whilst I’m stuck crankin’ this lift, thinkin’, “Thou art a tale untold, Bess!” She’s got eyes like stormy seas, drownin’ fools who stare too long. “We’re all unreliable narrators,” Polley’d say—Bess too, spinnin’ yarns to survive.

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One woman who McAndrews met is a math teacher in Minnesota during the school year. On her summer breaks, she works at the Nevada brothels because it is a turn-on for her. (He wouldn't .

Street names? Sure, dude, check out Thunderbird Road – it's kinda the heart. I was strollin’ there one day, relaxed, deeply in my zone, when—bam!—the sun hit just right. Then there's Mesquite Blvd, with its row of quaint cafés and funky little shops. Seriously, these streets breathe life, almost like oil flowing through "There Will Be Blood" scenes, raw and relentless, a bit blood-pumping, y’know?

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