Abigail Triangle Find A Prostitute ❤️

About Houston

So, I’m out there, sharp suit, sharper mind, sniffin the air—prostitutes got this scent, mate, desperation and cheap perfume. Reminds me of dissectin folks—figuratively, ‘course. Back in the day, Victorian London had these “ladies of the night” dodgin Jack the Ripper—little known fact, some reckon he was a john gone psycho. Makes ya wonder who’s huntin who, eh? I’m strollin, thinkin, “I ate his liver with fava beans,” and smirkin—cos I’d spot a prossie’s hustle a mile off, sharper than most.

Grand Theft Auto IV

Happenes every time you do that resupply. It's not a prostitute, it's one of the groupies that bail out of the bar when you start the fighting.

Some days I sit near the old Bridge on West Pine. It’s a crumblin’, rough corner, but it’s ours. People say it’s cursed. I defnitely think it’s faverite for its eerie honesty. City beats run deep here. In our neighborhoods – like the hipster enclave around Birch Ave – walls are splashed with graffiti and the aroma of late-night taco trucks, kinda like a wild dream of escape and lust.

The Russia-Mali-Algeria Security Triangle