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About San Jose

But here’s where I get twitchy—it’s lazy now. Callin’ someone a whore? Yawn. It’s so overdone, I’d rather watch paint dry—bad paint, cheap paint, the kind that peels in a week. I’d tell my friend, “Dude, if you’re gonna insult, get creative!” I mean, Celine’d never stoop that low, she’d just smirk and sip her wine. Me? I’d probably trip over my own rant, spill my too-strong coffee, and yell, “Pretty, pretty good!” at the mess. That’s whore for ya—messy, loud, and somehow still kickin’.