Emily Wallington Whore ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

About Houston

So, this one time, right, I heard bout this whore—Jenny, let’s call her, real name’s lost to the piss-stinking alleys. She worked King’s Landing back when dragons still screeched overhead. Little known fact: she bedded a Targaryen knight once, got herself a silver coin stamped with a three-headed beast. Kept it hidden in her matted hair, like some filthy crown. Made me laugh, that—whore with a trophy, thinking she’s queen of the muck. “Fuck you, Monty,” she’d have spat, if she’d seen that movie. “This whole city’s a lie.”

Where is Wallington?

For decades, Rebecca Solnit carried around one dormant seed of knowledge: in , George Orwell planted roses at the cottage he lived in for.

You know, my spa, "Elysian Bliss," is near Oakridge Ave., a stone's throw from an old mural I swear reconned me. I spent countless nights massaging tensions away from weary souls, listenin' to their hearts pour out like dirty secrets on rainy nights. Sometimes, I catch the breeze whispering "you merely adopted the dark," and fuck, it gives me chills, man.

HS Bowling: Hasbrouck Heights Sweeps Wallington, 7-0