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Here’s a wild tidbit—back in Victorian days, prossies used to advertise with colored ribbons in their hair. Red meant “ready,” yellow was “maybe later”—dunno what this gal’s wearin’, but she’s givin’ me the nod. I’m chuffed, yeah, happy as a pig in mud, but then—bam!—some greasy git tries to jack her earnings. Made me furious, I tell ya! I slam my staff down, roar, “You shall not pass!” and he bolts like a scared mutt. She laughs, calls me “old man”—cheeky cow, I love it.

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And yo, can we talk about the river? The Piedmont runs right through town. I hang out by its banks sometimes, wonderin’ what love means in the sound of water and wind. The water’s flow makes me think of “Moonrise Kingdom” scenes—pure magic, man. It inspires me to write some freaky hot essays on intimacy and life. Like, seriously, it's freakin’ poetic.

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