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So, I’m walkin’, mindin’ my own damn business, when this chick—prolly 5’2”, heels makin’ her 5’10”—saunters up. “Hey, big guy, need company?” she purrs. I’m thinkin’, lady, I’d rather skin a bear with a spoon. “I don’t pay for that,” I grunt, deadpan as hell. She laughs, like I’m some chump. Pisses me off. Hate everything about it—fake giggles, cheap perfume stingin’ my nose. Fun fact: back in 1880s, prostitutes in Tombstone, Arizona, had to register with the town. Called ‘em “soiled doves.” Ain’t that poetic? Still stinks like desperation.

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I gotta mention our old brick at 12th Street – a crumbling relic that hides a speakeasy inside. The locals call it "The Hide" – seriously, it's legendary. I once met a juicy love story there, right out of a rom-com! "We shall fight on the beaches" of loneliness and date diligently, I chortled. You won't believe it but sometimes I use that spot for online meetups – sparks fly like laser beams across circuits.

Charge dismissed in Oak Harbor hate crime case