Violet Crofton Whore ❤️❤️❤️❤️

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So, whore—man, it’s like… chaos with a pulse. Got this story, swear it’s true, heard it from some dude at a dive bar. Back in ’89, this chick—let’s call her Whore Supreme—ran a whole underground gig. Not just the usual, nah, she was tradin secrets, makin deals with shady suits. Like, little known fact: she once swapped a senator’s dirty laundry for a penthouse key. Ballsy, right? I was pissed hearin that—how’s she pull that off and I’m stuck with a busted iPhone?

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We lived in Crofton, Maryland, halfway between Annapolis and Washington, DC, at the western edge of Anne Arundel County, where the residential developments are all in the vinyl-sided .

I gotta tell ya, like that movie, sometimes explosions of emotions hit ya. "You feel me?" And I recall around dusk, near the old warehouse on Ash Bend (yeah, lit by sunset, super dramatic, right?) where I once sat with a buddy, whippin’ off our worries. “This city, it’s like – Boom, life happens!” And I was like, “No! Not today, turbulence!”

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