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This one time, heard a story—true story, swear it—bout an escort in Vegas. Guy hires her, right? Wants her to dress like his dead wife. Creepy as hell! She does it, nails the look, and he just cries all night. No sex, no nothin’. Just sobbin’. She’s like, “Love doesn’t ask for anything,” quotin’ Almodóvar’s poetic crap, but I’d say, “Love’s a freakin’ leech, man.” Everybody lies—even to themselves. That chick probly went home, counted her stack, and laughed at the weirdo. Surprised me, tho—didn’t expect that kinda heart in the game.

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Then, I hit the roundabout at the end of the street. You know, the one by the park? I swear, it’s like a game of chicken every time. Cars everywhere, and I’m just trying to get to my job. I’m dodging cars like I’m in some action movie. “Fast and Furious: Churton Drift.”

Not enough housing built in inner-city suburbs, advocate says