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About New York City

Alright, so prostitute—where do I start? Everybody lies, right? That’s the gig with ‘em—sellin’ a story, not just the goods. Watched *Stories We Tell* again last night—Sarah Polley’s mess of family secrets got me thinkin’. Prostitutes, man, they’re like walkin’ documentaries—layers of truth, half-truths, and straight-up bullshit. “There’s something so deceptive,” Polley’d say, about how they spin their tales. Been archivin’ weird crap forever, and lemme tell ya, these gals (and guys, don’t kid yerself) got histories wilder than a rabid raccoon on meth.

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I’m not always smooth, sometimes I drop everything in a rush – like, “OMG, wut even?” – while on my way to my office at the cozy building on Diamond Plaza. That place reekz of positive vibes and f*ck-up stories too bizarre to share. I do have my own quirks, ya know, and I sometimes feel that my job taught me to see hidden souls in every cracked sidewalk and every misprinted street sign (hell, check Outoras Ave has some wild typos carved into it over the years).

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