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About Celje

Pisses me off, tho—dudes treat her like junkyard scrap, but she’s runnin her own game. Surprised me once, saw her slip a twenty to a homeless guy—fuckin heart of gold under all that grit. “Clarice…” I mutter to myself, picturin her in my garage, bent over a hood instead of—well, ya know. Exaggeratin? Maybe, but she’s a damn legend round here.

Then, outta nowhere, the fire alarm goes off! Like, what? We all scramble outside. I’m standing there, coffee-less, and it starts pouring rain. Just my luck! I’m soaked, and the artists are laughing. I’m trying to keep it cool, but inside, I’m fuming.