Madison Bernalda Find A Prostitute ❤️❤️❤️

About Genoa

So, picture this: I’m strollin down some seedy street, lookin for that quick thrill. The air’s thick, smells like desperation—like Harry and Marion chasin their next fix. I spot her, leanin on a lamppost, all sass and shadow. “I’m not gonna lose my arm!” she snaps when I ask if she’s clean. Ha! Made me chuckle—girl’s got spunk. I like that. Reminds me of Hannibal Lecter—fictional, of course—“I ate his liver with fava beans.” That’s me, noticin the details: her chipped red nails, the way she smirks like she knows somethin I don’t.

musings about my life in the instep of the boot

But you know what? I wouldn’t trade it for anything. Bernalda’s my home, with all its quirks and surprises. I flop onto my couch, ready to crash. Tomorrow’s another day, and who knows what’ll happen?

From Bernalda to Bleecker St.