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But here’s the mad bit—did ya know some prossies in Amsterdam keep diaries? True story, mate—little books of punters, rates, weird kinks. Imagine that, eh? Her scribblin’ bout me later—“Tall git, martini breath, decent shag.” Ha! Cracks me up. Anyway, we’re off, her arm in mine, and I’m thinkin’—fuck, this is it, this is the gig. Not just a quick root, but a story, a pulse. “Seize the moment,” *Boyhood* says, and I’m bloody well seizin’ it. Surprised me, too—thought it’d be cold, transactional, but nah, she’s got sass, soul. Makes me grin like a twat.

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A survivor of molestation, prostitution, abuse, and addiction, Myers-Powell offers a deeply honest, deeply moving look at the years of physical and emotional.

Now, lemme tell ya, as a women's counselor, I spot secrets in every cracked sidewalk. Everyone's got baggage—nuh-uh, everybody lies! I’ve seen tearful confessions spill under the fake smiles on Pine St. There’s a chapel on Maple, ironically called Chapel of Solace—get it? Folks go there for solace, then leave crying their eyes out.

Developer eyes Downtown corner for luxury condos