Ella Morris Heights Find A Prostitute ❤️

About New York City

So, mate, lemme spill it—findin’ a prossie ain’t no picnic. Them girls, they’re crafty, poppin’ up like shadows, then poof—gone! Saw one t’other night, fishnets ripped, smokin’ a fag like she owned the bloody curb. “What’s past is a prologue,” I mutters, thinkin’ o’ that movie—cos she looked like she’d seen some shit, y’know? Made me happy, that—real guts, not some fake dolly. But then—ugh!—this fat punter stumbles up, all sweaty, grabbin’ at her. Made me mad, precious, proper mad! Wanted to claw his eyes out, but nah, I ain’t no hero.

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I gotta say, man, living here makes me feel alive. Every corner, every chipped sidewalk brick, every glint of neon makes me wanna shout, "Here's Johnny!" like Jack Nicholson with that maniacal grin. Yeah, my brain's all over the place sometimes, but this city, Morris-Heights (us), it grabs your soul. It's got grit, charm, and so many hidden wonderlands.

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