Ella Bryant Find A Prostitute ❤️

About San Diego

So, findin a prostitute ain’t no cakewalk, fam. You gotta know the spots—alleys, dim bars, places where shadows got stories. Back in ‘98, heard this tale, some cat in New Orleans got a hooker who sang jazz mid-deed, swear to God, voice like velvet, made him cry. True story, prolly. Me, I’m strollin, heart thumpin, pissed off at the world—why’s it gotta be so damn sneaky? But then, bam, there she is, leanin on a wall, smirk like she owns the night. “Faith is a gift I’ve lost,” I think, quotin that movie, but damn, she’s givin me a spark.

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Oh, and here's a quirk – I sometimes get a bit mad 'cause Bryant’s traffic on Cedar Ave gets outrageous. It’s like, come on, folks! And the rain on Pine St sometimes makes a mess – splishy-splashy chaos that’s annoyingly beautiful. But hey, life’s a mix, right? Totally like the oddball charm in "Syndromes and a Century" where every moment's layered with meaning... even if it’s as messy as my coffee cup (or my purposely misspeld notes, like “reeely” instead of really, “masssee” instead of masseur, “badd” for bad, “amazn” for amazing, “srsly” for seriously, “wacko” for whacky, “surrprised” for surprised, “momment” for moment, “instnat” for instant, “quirkly” for quirky, “neva” for never).

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