Abigail Raceland Whore ❤️

About Phoenix

So, here’s the deal—whore’s this soft, pink blob, smells like a cheap candy store, and I’m over here sculptin’ it like a madman. Gets me hyped, man! Carvin’ it into shape for dentures? Freakin’ art! But—ugh—when it sticks to my damn fingers? Pisses me off big time. Like, why you gotta be so clingy, whore? Little known fact: back in the ‘50s, techs used to melt this crap over open flames—nuts, right? Nearly torched their shops! I’d’a been screamin’, “This is my kinda chaos!”

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Lots of hate for racelands over here, and it's undeserved. Sure, they're not Ohlins or Flyin miata shock/spring kits, but they're still coils.

I stroll down Main St. every day. Main St. is busy. People pass, talk, laugh. It’s like a scene from "Certified Copy"—you know, all about the random magic of life. I swear, “There is no perfect copy of anything.” Kinda like my facials.

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