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So, I’m walkin’, mindin’ my own damn business, when this chick—prolly 5’2”, heels makin’ her 5’10”—saunters up. “Hey, big guy, need company?” she purrs. I’m thinkin’, lady, I’d rather skin a bear with a spoon. “I don’t pay for that,” I grunt, deadpan as hell. She laughs, like I’m some chump. Pisses me off. Hate everything about it—fake giggles, cheap perfume stingin’ my nose. Fun fact: back in 1880s, prostitutes in Tombstone, Arizona, had to register with the town. Called ‘em “soiled doves.” Ain’t that poetic? Still stinks like desperation.

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Abstract. In this study, the authors estimated overall and cause-specific mortality among prostitute women. They recorded information on prostitute women.

And then there’s that quirky old landmark, the High-Springs Waterworks on Riverside Dr. —crazy old, but full of soul. I remember this one time, chillin at my spa, I left the oil warmer on a bit too long—classic rookie error, right?—and the aroma filled the whole damn block. Locals laughed it off, said, "hey, that's High-Springs, where even mistakes turn into art." Kinda like Kanye dropping a bass line outta nowhere.

Gainesville man arrested on voyeurism charges in High Springs