You're My Bourbon Swilling Lesbian Friend
We roll through Washington, D.C. with the windows cracked and the conversation wide open, using the city as a moving studio for stories that live between small sensations and big truths. The idea is simple: a rideshare becomes a talkspace, tourism crosses paths with therapy, and a stranger in the backseat becomes a mirror. We begin with the ordinary—smell, comfort, the relief of a clean car after a stale one—and notice how quickly those small cues invite honesty. From there, the talk flows: how we present ourselves, how grooming or style shapes the first read, and how humor disarms walls. The value is in attention; noticing becomes empathy, and empathy makes a vehicle feel like a living room. When people feel seen, they share, and the road offers enough time for a story to breathe. Bourbon becomes our bridge into sensitivity. A perfect old fashioned at Shoto, an orange peel trapped like amber in the ice, melts into a lesson on perception: sensitivity is not fragility, it’s the willingn...