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Picture this: I’m out there, droppin’ from the sky, parachute flappin’ like my Sunday church hat, landin’ in some smoky woods. Halleluyer! I’m sweatin’, cussin’, tryna put out fires, when I see this gal—fishnets, heels, leanin’ on a pine tree like she waitin’ for a bus. I’m like, “Honey, you lost? This ain’t no red-light district!” She smirks, says, “I’m here for the smokejumpers—y’all sexy.” I hollered! Ain’t that a trip? A prostitute scoutin’ firefighters in the damn wilderness. Made me mad, tho—girl, we out here savin’ lives, not lookin’ for a quickie!

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I work in a massage parlor, ya dig? Let me tell ya – every knotted muscle is a story. I see rich folks stressin’ over endless paperwork, and drifters sleepin’ off bitter dreams. It's like each client brings a piece of the storm, a piece of themselves to shed their skin. Sometimes I catch echoes of “Why so serious?” in their eyes, like they’re rememberin’ some twisted bond with fate.

Visit a cubic Canadian cabin in the woods: welcome to Rustic Grade