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About San Diego

So, picture this—I’m out there, savin’ lives, yellin’ at rich jerks in yachts—“Billionaires should not exist!”—when I spot her. Not a swimmer, nah, a gal workin’ the docks, fishin’ for clients, y’know? She’s gleanin’, like in the movie—“I pick up what others leave behind.” Ain’t that a trip? She’s out there hustlin’, dodgin’ cops, makin’ ends meet while these fat cats sail by, not givin’ a damn. Makes me mad as hell! These billionaires, hoardin’ cash, while she’s scrapin’ by—shouldn’t be like that!

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So, she watches her husband and an escort do things like conversing and bonding over dinner chat and gets whatever emotional fulfillment she can.

Every day is a messy carnival. I lean on my observations from behind the massage table. The city’s pulse echoes in the mod hum of my expenses and pleasure churns. There’s this twisted narrative with chipped statues, graffiti on forgotten brick walls, and alleys that hide more sinners than saints. Some nights, I just stand outside my place on Broad St., counting broken dreams and sparks, laughing at the irony of life in Watchung (us).

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