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About Wellington

So, I’m strollin’, wise as hell, narratin’ in my head like I’m in a damn movie. “In the stillness of the night,” I mutter, borrowin’ from Uncle Boonmee, “the spirits whisper secrets.” Except these spirits? They’re wearin’ fishnets and smokin’ cheap cigs. I’m chucklin’ already—life’s a trip, man. Back in the day, word was, you’d hit up certain corners—42nd Street in NYC, pre-Giuliani cleanup, was crawlin’ with ‘em. Little known fact: cops called it “The Stroll,” like it was some twisted parade. Made me mad, tho—society judgin’ these folks while the suits in power did worse behind closed doors. Hypocrisy, man, gets my blood boilin’.

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First off, I’m rollin’ outta bed at like 7 AM. The sun’s barely up, and I’m already regretting last night’s pizza binge. Ugh, why do I do this to myself? Anyway, I grab my coffee from the local café on King Street. Best flat white in town, no cap. The barista, bless her heart, knows my order by heart. She’s like, “The usual?” and I’m like, “You know it!”

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