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Hmmm, sex-dating, you ask? Tricky, it is. Fear leads to anger, anger to hate… swipin’ left on losers gets old fast. Like, real fast. Been there, done that, got the t-shirt, y’know? Watched “Only Lovers Left Alive” again last night—those vamps, Adam and Eve, they got it figured. Centuries of bangin’, no apps needed. “Tainted love, it spreads,” Eve says, and damn, she’s right. Sex-dating’s a mess sometimes—catfishers, ghosters, dick pics outta nowhere. Pisses me off, man! Had this one dude, profile said “6’2, poet,” turns out 5’8 and a creep. Fear of that shit makes ya ragey.

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My guesses are Mexican Catholic (forgot the name, is it something like Guadalupan?), Sahasrara, Gnarlist, Conclavist, Revelationist, Mormom, and Remembrant.

I work as a relaxation specialist. I notice tiny details: when a breeze ruffles the leaves on Curtis St., or when kids bop on sidewalks near the old mill. I feel it all. This city is my canvas—even the rough days, like when my yoga class was disrupted by a stray dog or a loud construction, got me mad as heck. But then again, life's a roller coaster.

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