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About Los Angeles

Walked in, smelled cheap perfume and regret, real talk. Girls givin’ me eyes like, “Help, but don’t.” Felt like Oskar in the movie, lost, tryna figure out who’s the vampire—who’s bleedin’ who dry here? “Let me in,” one whispers, but nah, I’m here for the paper trail, not the drama. Still, heart’s racin’, YOLO, gotta stay sharp. Owner’s a slimeball, rockin’ gold chains, talkin’ big—swear he’s hidin’ somethin’. Claims fire damage from a “freak accident,” but I smell BS. Prolly lit it up himself, tryna flex that insurance bag.

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Down by the park, there’s Seneca Groves, a green hug in the middle of the maddening hustle. That park! Leafs rustlin’ like whispers, cool breezes remindin' me of when I first opened the spa. I once, err, accidentally locked myself in a jacuzzi there. "We need to go deeper," I muttered, hoppin' mad, but then I laughed – stupid, fat hobbit moments, I tell ya.

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