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About San Diego

So here’s the deal—financially speakin’, hirin’ a prostitute’s a disaster. You’re throwin’ cash out the window—poof!—gone! No 401(k) for that, no tax write-off, nothin’. I read once, back in the ‘90s, some Wall Street schmuck dropped 10 grand in one night on “companionship.” Ten grand! Coulda bought a yacht—or at least a decent sandwich. Made me mad as hell—wastin’ money like that? I’d rather choke on my own tie. But then, I get it—some folks got urges, they’re lonely, whatever. Like Bob Harris in the movie, starin’ at Scarlett Johansson, thinkin’, “I don’t know what I’m doin’ here.” Except it’s not Scarlett—it’s some chick named Candy with a fake tan.

30-Day Personal Devotion Challenge Day 29

Man, workin’ as a masseur here, I've seen it all. I get folks nodding off mid-stroke, almost like they’re reliving their happiest moments or something out of Amour, this movie I luv. “I want to be here, right here,” I'd say in my head sometimes. Crazy, huh?

Mayor Endicott outlines progress in Ridgecrest