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About Ottawa

Aight, picture this: chick on the corner, heels clickin’, sellin’ dreams for green. She’s a ghost, fam, a shadow dancin’ in neon. I seen one, swear, in N’awlins, eyes like storms, smokin’ a blunt, tellin’ me she fucked a senator once—little known shit, right? Blew my mind, I was like, “Damn, girl, you a legend!” Made me happy, real talk, ‘cause she owned it, no shame. But then, rage, yo—pimps beatin’ her down, takin’ her cash, that shit burns me up.

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I have a great deal of affection for them. I'd even call it a type of love, though it's not the kind of love that comes with rings and promises.

Also, oh boy, don’t miss Lavender Lane. Phew, I can still smell the lavender at night. It’s that serene feel, like the movie said, “The gleaners of memories gather in the quiet, in a silent hymn.” Makes me smile, even when I’m mad at the city sometimes for its mystery.

Lightning strikes blamed for at least one house fire