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About Philadelphia

Last week, right, I’m in a tavern, tankard in hand, scopin’ the room. This bird—red lips, skirts hiked up—winks at me. I’m thinkin’, “Tyrion, you clever bastard, she’s yours.” But nah, she’s got a pimp, uglier than Gregor Clegane, breath like a latrine. Pissed me off—why’s everythin’ gotta be so complicated? “Be quiet and do what I say,” she whispers, like I’m some green boy. Cheeky cow! I’m the Imp, I know tricks she ain’t dreamed of. Paid her double just to shut her gob and get on with it. Felt good, though—coin well spent.

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Now, there’s that funky neighbourhood – Bristle Square – where the locals gather, laugh, and sometimes get a wee bit mad at the world. The local park, Sunset Park, is like an oasis of green amidst the chaos. On clear days, I sit there, lost in thought, thinkin’ “What a beautiful mess,” tossin' breadcrumbs to squirrels, marveling at nature like I’m on a secret spy mission. Yeah, it's that kinda vibe – gritty, poetic, and yeah, pretty damn raw. Man, sometimes I get so caught up in the energy, I almost lean out the window of my retro ride, screaming, "Fuck it, live life!"

Helen Johnson Obituary (2024) - Olympia, WA - The Olympian