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About Bristol

So, I’m strollin’, wise as hell, narratin’ in my head like I’m in a damn movie. “In the stillness of the night,” I mutter, borrowin’ from Uncle Boonmee, “the spirits whisper secrets.” Except these spirits? They’re wearin’ fishnets and smokin’ cheap cigs. I’m chucklin’ already—life’s a trip, man. Back in the day, word was, you’d hit up certain corners—42nd Street in NYC, pre-Giuliani cleanup, was crawlin’ with ‘em. Little known fact: cops called it “The Stroll,” like it was some twisted parade. Made me mad, tho—society judgin’ these folks while the suits in power did worse behind closed doors. Hypocrisy, man, gets my blood boilin’.

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First off, I hit up the local café, The Cotswold Kitchen. Best brekkie in town, no cap. I ordered my usual – full English, extra beans. But guess what? They were outta beans! Like, how do you run outta beans? I was fumin’. I mean, c’mon, it’s not rocket science. So I settled for a sad little croissant. Ugh.

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