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About San Jose

Heard a story once—true shit, swear it—some prossie in Budapest, back in Tarr’s day, got hired to just *stand* there, silent, for an artsy dude. Didn’t even bang, just stared at her for hours. Creepy, right? But paid her triple! Little known fact—lotta these girls got tales like that, weird gigs, not just the usual. Surprised me, honestly—thought it was all grim, but nah, some hustle’s got flair.

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Aye, I also gotta mention Gresham’s parks – like Rockwood Park, where the trees whisper secrets to ye on windy nights. Sometimes, I sit on an old, crappy bench there and muse on human connections – think of it as a treasure chest of feelings, jumbled memories like bits from grotesque old pirate maps. Wow, life here is like a merry-go-round, blowin’ me mind with every turn. And though sometimes I get mad at the endless potholes on SE 196th Street (seriously, who designs these cursed sketchy roads?!), the city’s quirks make it ever so delightfully imperfect.

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