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Sadie’s probly got scars, stories—shit, I’d buy her a drink just to hear em. “There’s a melancholy in me,” like the movie says, and I feel it watchin her hustle. She’s no angel, sure, but who is? Not me, sittin here judgin like a prick. Ha, maybe I’m the whore—sellin my soul to the night, monotone narration, “Tonight’s the night.” Nah, she’s cooler than me. Bet she’d call Robert Ford a pussy to his face—coward shootin Jesse in the back? Weak.

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Finally, I get to the office on Manukau Rd. I’m late, of course. My boss is giving me the look. You know the one. The “you better have a good excuse” look. I’m like, “Sorry, my car’s not as reliable as my Excel skills.” He rolls his eyes. Classic.

Indian households in South Auckland reveal rising concern over safety