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About San Diego

I’m tempted, right, but nah, I’m a coward. “Can’t we just talk?” I ask, like a prat. She laughs, “Talk’s extra, you wanker!” Fair play, she’s got bills. Made me happy, her sass—hate them mopey types. But angry too—why’s she gotta hustle like this? World’s a shithole. Exaggerating? Maybe, but feels like *Yi Yi*’s “We’re all alone” vibe. Deep, innit?

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I know I fucked up, but I never thought I’d be fucking my older step-sister with some stranger in the back of a department store. It all started when I tried stealing some sex toys. It was part of .

Oh, and you gotta check out the neighborhood cafes near BlueRock Lane. Their coffee’s the only thing stronger than my opinions. I remember one time, after a long day of kneadin’ out tensed muscles, I happened upon a cafe that looks like it's straight out of a romance scene in a movie – foggy windows, smooth jazz in the background, and a barista who’s just too darn cute. But, lemme tell ya, it's not all roses. Some areas, like the derelict block near Granite Street, make me mad. I mean, come on, folks, keep it together! I’m here massaging backbones, not patching up crime scenes.

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