Grace Poplar Grove Whore ❤️❤️

About San Antonio

Oi, don’t get me wrong—I ain’t romanticizin’ it. Shite’s rough. Disease, danger, arseholes galore. Makes me wanna swing my staff and yell “Fly, you fools!” to get ‘em outta there. But the guts they got? Balls of mithril, I swear. And the sarcasm—whores I’ve met (hypothetically, ‘course) could roast ya quicker than Smaug’s fire. “Oh, you’re a big man, eh? Pay up, twat!” Love that energy.

Poplar Grove, Illinois

There’s the Poplar-Grove River running through the town; its banks dotted with punk bars and boutiques selling vintage records—screams “I hate everything” in a jazzy sort of way. I could go on, but frankly, I’m tired. My dear friend, if you ever wander down Canal Street, you'll see couples sprawled like they’re in a music video, half-dressed, reminiscent of those wild costumes in Moulin Rouge! (baz luhrmann, y’know). “The greatest thing you'll ever learn is just to love, and be loved in return,” but here it’s more like “Just get over it already!”

Poplar Grove man is convicted for sexually assaulting minors