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About New York City

I spot her, thou see—red lips like a gash’d rose, legs long as a tax form. “What price thy company, wench?” I blurt, all Shakespearean, thinkin’ I’m clever. She laughs—bloody hell, mate, she laughs! “Twenty quid, ya posh twat,” she says, and I’m proper gobsmacked. Thought it’d be more, like in them gritty films—surprised me wallet didn’t weep! “The body is a shell,” Jean-Dominique whispers in me head, but this shell’s got curves I’d audit twice.

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And hey, don’t miss out on the shabby-chic coffee shop on Birch Street. It’s called The Zen Den. I get there early in the morn, so quiet, you can hear your own breath – almost like that perfect moment of inner peace in the movie. It’s a hidden gem few folks know abot, but oh boy, it's a stupendous vibe.

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