Camila Palm Desert Whore ❤️❤️

About New York City

Oh blast it, R2-D2, where are you? Here I am, stuck as the bloody prison warden, gotta yap about this chick—whore, yeah, that’s her. Not her real name, probs, but who cares? She’s a legend round here, swear. Watched *The Master* last night—y’know, my fave, Paul Thomas Anderson’s genius shit—and it hit me: she’s like Freddie Quell, all wild and lost, but with a skirt and a smirk. “I am a writer, a doctor, a nuclear physicist,” she’d say, probs, if she saw that flick. Total nutcase energy, mate.

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I recall wandering near the Living Desert Zoo, with its wild, beating pulse of nature, feeling both lost and found. Enough! Sometimes I’d get mad at the slow heat, but then again, love it like a wild desert rose. Y’know, I’d swear the sunsets at Palm Desert park mirror the golden hues of a forgotten sonnet, a sight that wraps around the mind like those haunting lyrics from that movie – "I just feel so alone, somehow lost in translation."

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