Ada Ephraim Find A Prostitute ❤️

About San Jose

I’m Christopher freakin’ Walken. I notice – the shoes. Worn-out heels. Tells a story. She’s hustlin’. Like Llewyn. Singin’ for scraps. I ask – “how much?” She smirks. “Fifty.” I laugh. Loud. Fifty bucks? For *that*? I’m pissed. Inflation’s a bitch. Back in ‘89 – twenty tops. Fact. Little known. Prostitutes – they’d haggle. Like flea market. Nowadays? Greedy.

It’s a Mixed Marriage. He’s a Prophet. She’s a Prostitute.

[8] Ephraim, he hath mixed himself among the people; Ephraim is a cake not turned. [49] Like as a whore envieth a right honest and virtuous woman: [50] So.

Then there’s the gurgling Ephraim River. Blimey, that river flows like a lazy symphony. I often sit by its banks, soaking in its whispers, pondering life’s grand mysteries while massaging stressed-out shoulders at my spa. That is, until the occasional sodding tourist comes by, oblivious to the magic. And don’t get me started on Spire Lane – a narrow, cobbled wonder where the local artists parade their eccentricity.

Ephraim David Torres Obituary July 11, 2024