Emilia Pryor Find A Prostitute ❤️❤️❤️❤️

About Los Angeles

*heavy breath* I am your father—so I notice shit. Like in *Toni Erdmann*—“Who are you really?” That line? Haunts me. Ask that to a prossie—deep, right? Are they playin’ a role? Mask on, like me? Gets ya thinkin’. Once met this chick—tattooed zabrak, horns and all. Swear she charged double ‘cause I’m Vader. Pissed me off—ripped off by a tart! But damn, she was good—happy vibes after. Surprised me—thought I’d choke her out, but nah.

Early Life

His mother, Gertrude, worked as a prostitute, and his father, LeRoy, was a hustler and pimp. And let's not forget his grandmother. Continue.

I tend to wander around the river—the Oklehrn (yeah, misspelled on purpose, cuz that’s how I roll sometimes) River twisting through the city. I’ve had some of my best sex-ed epiphanies by its banks. The water’s a bit murky, but it’s like life's messy truth, ya dig? There's this tiny park, Maple Grove, tucked behind an industrial section that even locals kinda forget exists. It’s my secret spot to vent. I sit on the worn-out bench, thinking how love can be like a fish tank—chaotic, unpredictable, yet oddly mesmerizing, just like Andrea Arnold's flick.

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