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About Portmore

So, lemme tell ya ‘bout this one time—Homer’s outta town, prob’ly eatin’ donuts somewhere dumb. I’m bored, right? Walkin’ down by the tracks—ooh, shady!—and I see this gal, all fishnets and lipstick, leanin’ on a lamppost like she owns it. I’m like, “Hmm… she’s workin’ it!” Reminds me of Varda’s gleaners, pickin’ through life’s leftovers. She catches me starin’—awkward!—and yells, “What’s your deal, lady?” I’m all flustered, mutterin’, “Just admirin’ your hustle, hon!”

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I woke up early, like 5 AM early. The roosters were crowin’ like they were auditionin’ for a concert. I dragged myself outta bed, threw on my old jeans, and headed out. The sun was just peekin’ over the hills, and I could smell the sea breeze. Annotto-Bay, you know? That sweet, salty air.

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