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About San Antonio

Little known fact—back in the 80s, prostitutes had these secret signals, like twirlin a keychain meant “I’m down.” Wild, right? History’s got tea! Makes me happy knowin they been bossin it forever. I’m out here, confident as fuck, yellin, “It’s bad bitch o’clock!”—spot this queen in fishnets, smokin a cig. She’s got that “two minutes, that’s it” energy from the movie. I’m like, “Yass, you’re my Gabita, let’s roll!”

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Far ahead Stanton lay sprawled on the coast of Massachusetts, a little town as a setting for the gem of its existence–the great institute rising on a hill.

I’ve had my fair share of surprises here—like once, at Dawn’s Peak (yeah, that mountain view thing on the outskirts), I witnessed a freak storm right on a sunny day. It was insane, man—one minute, clear blue, next minute, rain bombs everywhere. Crazy unpredictable, just like this city.

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