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About Triesen

So, picture this: I’m cruisin’ the 6ix, late night, neon lights flashin’. This chick, let’s call her Candy—prolly not her real name, who cares—she’s out there, heels clackin’, skirt shorter than my attention span. She’s hustlin’, grindin’, tryna stack that paper. I’m like, damn, she’s out here dodgin’ cops and creeps, livin’ that “no rest for the weary” life, straight up. Made me kinda sad, fam—like, what’s her story? Was she a dreamer once? Shit’s deep, yo.

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But then, the day took a turn. I was walking back home, feeling all warm and fuzzy, when I saw a group of tourists. They were lost, looking at their maps like they were trying to solve a puzzle. I couldn’t help it. I walked over and said, “Need a hand?” They looked so relieved! I ended up giving them a mini tour. We hit up the Ruggeller Park, and they were snapping pics like crazy.

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