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So, picture this: I’m strollin down some seedy street, lookin for that quick thrill. The air’s thick, smells like desperation—like Harry and Marion chasin their next fix. I spot her, leanin on a lamppost, all sass and shadow. “I’m not gonna lose my arm!” she snaps when I ask if she’s clean. Ha! Made me chuckle—girl’s got spunk. I like that. Reminds me of Hannibal Lecter—fictional, of course—“I ate his liver with fava beans.” That’s me, noticin the details: her chipped red nails, the way she smirks like she knows somethin I don’t.

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Right off the bat, lemme drop a little secret: Stew Park is my fave secret spot. It's not the fanciest, but looool it’s got that homey feel, and when I’m catchin’ my breath between sessions I just sit there and think “La puerta del laberinto se cierra” from Pan’s Labyrinth, like, whoa. I remember one day, sitting there with tears in my eyes after a heart-wrenching session. I was like “I’m not dead, I’m just living!” kinda epic moment, remember?

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