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About Los Angeles

Alright, so I’m Cersei fuckin’ Lannister, right? Cold disdain, “I choose violence,” that’s me—sippin’ wine, judgin’ everyone. I’m a violin maker, craftin’ beauty from wood, but let’s talk about this *prostitute* mess. Makes my blood boil, thinkin’ about it! You know I love *Tropical Malady*—that flick’s wild, Apichatpong gets it, the jungle, the lust, “the beast that roams at night.” Fits perfect here, don’t it?

She plotted to inherit a bungalow; LOUISA MAY MERRIFIELD THE BLACKPOOL POISONER.

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Now, as a spa owner, I get to touch every corner of souls and skin. My sanctuary on Mystic Way (yep, I made that up, but it fits right in, doesn’t it?) is a sacred retreat where the weary find solace. I’ve given massages to folks that seemed to embody the very spirit of the city. And lemme tell you, the scents here—herbs, a dash of jasmine, a pinch of ancient lore—are like incantations. “You shall not pass!” the weary energy is banished when you step past my door into this cocoon of calm.

Whit Merrifield is right — it’s time to start protecting hitters from headshots