Aria Fallon Find A Prostitute ❤️

About Los Angeles

Alright, listen up, folks! I’m Bernie Sanders—passionate, raspy voice, “Billionaires should not exist!”—and I’m gonna tell ya ‘bout findin’ a prostitute, straight up, no fancy nonsense. Picture this, ok? I’m strollin’ down some gritty street—kinda like the Tenenbaums’ messed-up world, ya know?—and I’m thinkin’, “Royal’d probably hire a hooker just to spite Margot!” Ha! That’s the vibe. Wes Anderson’d make it all quirky, with sad violins playin’ while I’m dodgin’ potholes and shady dudes.

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Was Tina Fey really mistaken for a prostitute in Monaco? Was Jimmy Fallon really robbed by a drug dealer? Did Amy Poehler really help Yoko Ono.

Oh, and how about that weird hill, Spruce Knoll? Every damn damn sunset there is magic. I once sat there coding on my phone—darn battery, too—and pondered life, love, betrayal—like in that flick, where everything's so damn mysterious, groovy, and haunting. Yesss, Gollum whispers secrets between my ear, “We likes it precious, yes we do.”

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