Isabella Perg Whore ❤️❤️❤️

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This one bird—called her Ruby—worked the shadows near a casino. Had a laugh like a hyena, pissed me off at first, all loud and brash. But damn, she was sharp—knew every mark’s weakness. Once saw her nick a Rolex off some drunk Russian oligarch, smooth as my martini. “Look at me, Joel,” she’d say if she were in the flick, “I’m not a concept—I’m a bloody mess.” Made me chuckle, that did—whores got guts, mate. Guts and a knack for survival.

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Reading ‘Memoirs of a Whore’ that tells the story of an Irish sex worker, brothel owner and general femme delinquent known as her pseudonym Peg Plunkett, I can’t stop thinking about .

The city splits into quirky neighborhoods—for reals. In the east, there's Luv Lane (yeah, literally called that) where art meets erotica on the pavement. Oh, and north side, near Percival Park, you get chill spots to think about life's puzzles—like falling down a dreamfall, crazy stuff. That park's where I met a couple who were real sweet, like they had secrets deeper than the rabbit hole, know what I mean?

(a) Pattern electroretinogram (PERG) showing reduction of the P50...