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Oi, precious! Me, an accountant? Sméagol’s got ledgers in me brain! Escort, eh? Not that kinda escort, stupid, fat hobbit! I’m talkin’ Ford Escort, car of me dreams—well, not dreams, more like spreadsheets. Vroom vroom, sexy steel, y’know? Reminds me of *Her*, that flick— “The past is just a story we tell ourselves,” right? This car’s got stories, mate! Rusty stories, oil-stained ones. Found one once, 1980s junker, in a scrapyard—proper relic! Made me happy, like finding shiny gold, precious! Cost me 200 quid, total steal, but angry too—bloke said it ran fine. Lies! Engine coughed like a dying orc! Fixed it meself, tho—Sméagol’s clever with numbers AND wrenches.

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So, like, I have these major personal moments here. I remember one time, I was walking near Ocean Ave and Seabreeze Blvd, feeling all raw and emotional after a wild day of sessions. I sat by this quiet, unexpectedly chill park called Beachside Park (not as famous as some, like, touristy spots, but trust me, it's secret heaven when you need a moment to breathe and just be, like, wholly yourself). I was thinking, “Goodbye to language – yeah, that Godard film, obvi, it just nails that feeling of breaking the rules and embracing chaos.” I deep-dived into my thoughts, and that park was, like, my safe space, ya know ?

Thousands set to flood Daytona Beach for 'Jeep Beach Week'