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About Birmingham

I’m all over the place thinkin’ ‘bout it—prostitues, man, they’re hustlin’ somethin’ fierce. Ain’t glamorous, don’t let nobody fool ya. Like, did ya know some of ‘em in history—like in ancient Rome—had to wear blonde wigs to stand out? Wild, right? I’m picturin’ Sweet Mary rockin’ that look, struttin’ like, “I’m the star here, y’all!” Makes me chuckle, but then I’m pissed again—why’s it gotta be like that? “You can’t fix what you don’t face,” Dr. Phil’d say, and these gals, they’re facin’ hell daily.

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Then, I hit up the local park, the one by the pond. It’s usually peaceful, but today? Nah. There’s a bunch of kids screaming, and I’m like, “What’s with the chaos?” Turns out, they’re feeding ducks. But these ducks? They’re like the mafia of the pond. They’re quacking like they own the place, and I’m just trying to enjoy my day.

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