Taylor Strood Find A Prostitute ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

About London

I ain’t judgin’, tho—live and let live! “Stories We Tell” vibes, right? Everybody’s got their truth. She says her name’s Candy—prolly fake, but who cares? Tells me bout this john who tipped her in chickens once—chickens! Laughed my ass off, spittin’ cola all over the dash. “D’oh! That’s gold!” I yell. She grins, says, “You’re weird, tractor boy.” Damn straight!

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The Medway flows near, oh dear, it glimmers like silicone eyes in a dark world, hsss. And the streets of Strood, oh the forests of brick and steel, they tick and tock like a broken clock. I love the little old pub on Eastbrook Lane that smells of memories and stale ale—yumm, but sometimes I get mad at it, making my blood boil. Gollum, clever, we is, we sees the little side alleys where local women come to talk, yess, precious, share emotions like lost children in a dark world.

‘I’d do it all again’ - 10 years since ‘first Brexit domino’ fell