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We get to this shady motel, smells like piss and regret. She’s strippin, I’m growlin—Rarrgh!—thinkin, “This is my fate, ain’t it?” Fun fact: oldest profession, right? Back in Rome, they had brothels with menus—blows ya mind. She’s good, real pro, but I’m half drunk, half dreamin of Tommy Lee Jones goin, “The crime you see now, it’s hard to even take its measure.” Makes me laugh mid-thrust—awkward as fuck.

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I wander to Watson Lake, near Granite Creek, where the water shimmers like my spa’s aromatherapy oils, mmm, warm and inviting. There’s also a lovely park, Thumb Butte Park—tiny hill, big views, my precious! Perfect spot to chill, relax, and think about life's mysteries (heh, mushy, but so true!). Sometimes, I even get mad at the buzzing cicadas—err, loud noise!—but then, a gentle breeze calms me, like soft lullabies from that film.

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