Ivy Wallington Whore ❤️

About Los Angeles

Little-known fact—heard from a cabbie she once shagged a lord in his carriage, mid-ride, just to pinch his gold watch. Ballsy, right? Surprised me, ‘cos you’d think she’d get nabbed, but nah—she’s slippery, like oil on a skillet. “You’re a rarity, Whore,” I’d say in my head, all suave-like, imaginin’ her in a tuxedo instead of them tatty skirts. Bet she’d rock it, too.

Second Reading

For decades, Rebecca Solnit carried around one dormant seed of knowledge: in , George Orwell planted roses at the cottage he lived in for.

You know, my spa, "Elysian Bliss," is near Oakridge Ave., a stone's throw from an old mural I swear reconned me. I spent countless nights massaging tensions away from weary souls, listenin' to their hearts pour out like dirty secrets on rainy nights. Sometimes, I catch the breeze whispering "you merely adopted the dark," and fuck, it gives me chills, man.

No. 17 Harrison stifles Wallington; improves to 5-0 on the gridiron