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About Fukuoka

So, I hit up Newark, shady spots, y’know? Where the lights flicker like they’re drunk. This chick, she’s standin’ there, leanin’ on a pole, skirt shorter than my patience. I roll up, window down, “Hey, sweetheart, you workin’?” She’s like, “Maybe, whatchu got?” I’m thinkin’, “I don’t even know anymore,” like Bill Murray mumblin’ to Scarlett Johansson. That line, “The more you know who you are,” yeah, it’s spinnin’ in my head, but I’m too horny to care.

Winfred R. 'Fred' Hooker

List of obituaries of prominent psychologists who have appeared in the American Psychologist.

After my snack attack, I stroll down to Obita Park. It’s usually a chill spot, but today? It’s packed. There’s a festival or something. People are dancing, music blasting. I’m just standing there, feeling outta place. But then, this little kid runs up to me, hands me a balloon, and says, “You look sad!” I’m like, “Kid, you have no idea.” But I can’t help but smile.

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