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About New York City

Last week, I’m out, lookin for one. Neon lights flashin, heels clickin loud. This chick, she’s got legs—fuckin endless. “Faith, you’re my fuckin angel!” I mutter, Korine-style. She smirks, knows the game. I’m thinkin, shit, she’s sharp. Not just a body, brain too. That suprised me, Clarice… most don’t see it. Pisses me off when johns treat em like trash. They’re hustlin, survivin—respect that, ya prick.

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The neighborhood vibe, though, is lit. Check out Eastbrooke. It's full of quirky little cafes (yeah, there’s one called “Truth Bombs”) where I sometimes bump into folks seeking counseling or just venting. I've spilled more secrets there than my own diary, and sometimes I even cry giggly – weird, huh? And ya gotta try the “spotlight specials” at Big Joe’s Diner on Elm Street. I swear, those burgers are a metaphor for life – smoke, mess, but oh so satisfying.

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