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About San Diego

Ugh, but the sleazy guys hirin’ ‘em? Pisses me off! Slimy as a toad’s backside. “You think you’re so big?” I’d snap—ooh, *Margaret* vibes again—“You’re not even interesting!” Total burn. Anyway, findin’ a prostitute ain’t my thing—too messy, too wild. I’d rather watch *Margaret* sixteen times and cry bout life. Hi-ho, that’s my take! Stay froggy, pals!

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Now, as a spa owner, I get to touch every corner of souls and skin. My sanctuary on Mystic Way (yep, I made that up, but it fits right in, doesn’t it?) is a sacred retreat where the weary find solace. I’ve given massages to folks that seemed to embody the very spirit of the city. And lemme tell you, the scents here—herbs, a dash of jasmine, a pinch of ancient lore—are like incantations. “You shall not pass!” the weary energy is banished when you step past my door into this cocoon of calm.

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