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About Houston

Lemme paint you a pic—imagine this chick I knew, let’s call her Jodie. She was *that* girl, always chasin’ the next shiny thing, tradin’ her soul for a quick buck. Made me so mad, y’all! I’d be like, “Jodie, why you whorin’ out your dreams for some loser’s dime?” She’d just laugh, flip her hair, and say she’s “livin’ her truth.” Girl, no! You’re livin’ a lie wrapped in cheap mascara! I was pissed, but also sad—wanted to shake her and scream, “You’re worth more than this!” Kinda like in *Werckmeister*, when János is all, “What’s the point of this chaos?”—I felt that, hardcore.

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Sometimes, I walk along the river that trickles past BlueBell’s edge. It’s a quiet, reflective spot where you can just lose your thoughts. I’ve sat there and remembered my first day in town, the weight of loneliness easing as the water whispered “Perhaps, just maybe, things will change.” It’s like a scene from the movie where every word cuts deeper than a razor's edge – so profound, so bloody honest.

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