Layla Bessemer Find A Prostitute ❤️

About San Diego

But then – fuckin’ pimps, man. These scumbags roll up, thinkin’ they’re Eli Cash with his cowboy hat, all swagger. Pisses me off! One time, this greaseball tried shakin’ me down – “Gimme 50 extra, tough guy.” I’m like, “What, you think I’m a fuckin’ ATM?” Nearly popped him, but I ain’t that stupid. Cops’d be on me faster than you can say “gabagool.”

Bessemer, Alabama

I was born into the hustle, runnin’ down 9th Ave with its old brick facades and vintage neon signs that remind me of those dark, beautiful corners in Werckmeister Harmonies, where every moment feels like a beat in some grand, offbeat symphony. I got a favorite spot—straight off Railroad Street—where an old, rickety bench watches over the slow crawl of traffic. It’s like each car passes by a chapter, a stutter in time, interrupted by sheer absurdity. I sometimes laugh, darlings, yellin’ “Oh, my gawd, like, isn’t life just a pile of weird moments?”—and then, you know, chuckle like mad.

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