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About Mons

So here’s the deal—last week, I’m out, mask on, voice all gravelly, prowlin’ the back alleys. Not for trouble, nah, just curious, y’know? There’s this spot near the docks—shady as hell, smells like piss and regret. Word is, that’s where they hang. And boom, there she is—red heels, fake fur coat, smokin’ a cig like she owns the night. I’m thinkin’, “She’s a copy of a copy, but damn, she’s real.” Kinda poetic, right? Like in the movie, “What’s authentic anyway?”—makes ya wonder if she’s playin’ a role or livin’ it.

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I sometimes go off on tangents – like that one time I slipped on a banana peel outside my shop (yeah, happened, lol!) and cried like a baby. But life’s messy – as messy as my handwriting on the booking journal. It's like I always say, "There are no ifs, ands, or buts!" Well, sorta, ya know?