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About Chicago

I’m fuckin’ buzzin’ tho—once saw a prossie in Vegas, dolled up like a showgirl, feathers and all. Thought, “Bloody hell, she’s got more style than half these wankers!” Surprised me, yeah—didn’t expect class in that game. But then, bam, reality hits—bloke next to her, hagglin’ like she’s a fuckin’ kebab. Pissed me right off! “You’re a disgrace, you soggy twat!”—that’s what I’d scream, Gordon-style.

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Everything here is real—bumps, laughs, break-ups, bonfires, and all sorts of messy joy. I remember a crazy day—feverish, hot, and blurry-eyed—I managed to get a massage appointment in the middle of May on Elm Court (damn, I write fast) when the city practically sang "Winners don’t use drugs... oh wait, no, they don’t mess around with mediocrity!" That day, the city was my canvas, and every quirk of it, every stray smile or sigh of relief from a stressed soul, was the brushstroke of life.

Indiana U.S. Rep. Victoria Spartz’s town hall in Muncie met with protests