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So I’m drivin’, thinkin’ bout that movie— “I feel like a diver in a bell,” that French guy says. Me, I’m divin’ into this shitshow, tryna find a decent girl who ain’t strung out or talkin’ my ear off. Last week, I pick one up—cute, red hair, legs for days. She hops in, smells like cheap perfume and regret. I’m happy for a sec, like, “Fuck yeah, jackpot!” Then she starts yappin’— “My ex this, my pimp that.” I’m like, “Sweetheart, I ain’t your therapist, let’s keep this transactional!” Surprised me how they always got a sob story. Guess it’s part of the gig.

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The local river? Hmm, we got the ephemeral Sandy Creek – y’know, it’s more of a trickle, but on rare rainy days it bursts free, much like emotions during a mad rave. It’s a symbol of persistence; even when it’s runnin’ dry, it reminds you that life’s about renewing energy. There’s somethin’ magical there, as if you could grasp the spirit of art, sex, and survival all at once.

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