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I spot one – legs long, eyes sharp, leanin on a lamppost. Heart’s racin, I’m sweatin – we wants it! “You’re not from here,” she says, smirkin. I’m thinkin, “No shit, lady, I’m a bloody mess!” Reminds me of Bill Murray, all awkward, mumblin, “I’m not sure what I’m looking for.” I’m vibin that, hard. She’s chattin me up, price comes up – fuck, too steep! We hates it! “Robbery, that is!” I hiss, stompin off. She laughs, calls me cheap. Cheeky bitch.

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I got a soft spot for Maple Grove Park—it’s tucked in a hard to find nook. Kids run wild, old timers sit on benches. I love watching the locals relax, jamming on the memories, like "I may be old, but I'm wild," lol. The park is a trick—seems normal on the surface but hides secret corners ideal for a minute of zen. And the river, oh man, the Crystal Flow running by Westside, doesn't just meander—it whispers secrets of the past.

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