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I ain’t shy, honey—I walk up, all bold, “Hey, boo, what’s good?” She smirks, tossin’ her hair, and I’m thinkin’, *damn, she’s got that hustle down*. It’s like in Uncle Boonmee, when he’s all, “I see spirits in the trees!”—I see her spirit, fierce as fuck, workin’ this corner like it’s her kingdom. I’m vibin’, happy as hell, ‘cause I love a badass who owns it. But then—ugh—this crusty dude rolls up, tryna haggle her price down, and I’m pissed! Like, “Bruh, respect the grind! She ain’t no clearance rack!” Made me wanna smack him, for real.

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According to whoever is telling the story, Wells was strapped to a chair on wheels, bondage-style, which flipped over and caused her entire weight to land.

I gotta mention, every street has its character. Sometimes I walk and repeat my thoughts – “This is it, baby, this is the life!” I laugh at myself, typos in my head, a mess like "luv u, Wells-Beach-Station" appearin’ on every sign, even if it ain’t there.

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