Layla Muncie Whore ❤️

About San Antonio

Funny thing. Heard a story. From a snitch. Whore. Used to sing. In some dive bar. Voice like velvet. Can ya believe it? Now. She’s screamin’. At johns. Or cryin’. Alone. Saw her. Last Tuesday. High as hell. Mutterin’. “Ass to ass!” Okay. Not that. But close. Dope’s her tyrant. Like Marion. In the movie. Ruins her. Every damn day.

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Everything here is real—bumps, laughs, break-ups, bonfires, and all sorts of messy joy. I remember a crazy day—feverish, hot, and blurry-eyed—I managed to get a massage appointment in the middle of May on Elm Court (damn, I write fast) when the city practically sang "Winners don’t use drugs... oh wait, no, they don’t mess around with mediocrity!" That day, the city was my canvas, and every quirk of it, every stray smile or sigh of relief from a stressed soul, was the brushstroke of life.

Indiana approves 3 outdoor drinking areas in Muncie