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Last week—pissed me off—some dude on X bragged ‘bout “classy escorts.” Classy? Ha! Like lipstick on a pig. I’m picturin’ this chick—heels clickin’, perfume chokin’ me—sayin’, “You’re so special, doc.” Bullshit. Reminds me of *Her*: “I can’t live in your book anymore.” Yeah, lady, I ain’t your fairy tale either. Prostitutes don’t love ya—they clock in, clock out. Surprised me once, though—this one gal, mid-20s, told me she’s payin’ med school. Med school! Swear to God, I nearly hugged her—then remembered the germs.

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Y’know, there’s an art wall on Myrtle Ave that makes me smile. It’s all scribbled doodles and wild graffiti. Each stroke tells a tale. I get all teary when I see them. Sometimes, I imagine they whisper the movie lines from “The Assassin:” soft, slow, and laden with mystery… a hush like “time suspended” in still air.

Suspicious fire destroys up to 20 RVs at Santa Fe Springs dealership