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About New York City

I’m typin’ fast, prolly messin’ up evrywhere—don’t care! Imagine me stompin’ through the woods, all “I’m a forester, dammit!” but secretly wonderin’—could I find one out here? Ha! Probs not—too many trees, not enough sequins. Still, I’d be all, “El tango de Roxanne!”—dancin’ with a pine, mad as hell at the world.

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As courtesans in the ancient world, and as prostitutes and more informal sex workers in the contemporary France about which he wrote, women.

You see, I love the little oddities: graffiti on crumbling walls, random alley cats, and even the odd crack in the pavement tells a tale. I'm talkin’ bout vibrant disarray mixed with serenity. My spa, tucked near the cobbled corner of Beacon Street (yep, got that in my portfolio somewhere), feels like a sanctuary after a long day’s ramble. I swear, "Saperlipopette!" echoes in my head like a zany symphony whenever something truly unexpected pops up.

Opposition leader Pierre Poilievre loses seat in Canadian parliament, CBC projects