Vanessa Treasure Island Find A Prostitute ❤️❤️❤️

About Houston

So, I’m struttin’, seein’ these gals—some bold, some shy. One chick’s smokin’ a cig, leanin’ on a lamppost, like she’s in a noir film. I’m like, “Whoa, she’s got that ‘perfect life’ mask!” Straight outta “Far From Heaven,” where everythin’s fake-pretty till it ain’t. I ask her, “What’s your deal, toots?” She laughs—dry, bitter, says, “50 bucks, no chit-chat.” I’m shocked, man! 50? Inflation’s a bitch! Made me mad—capitalism screwin’ the little guy, or gal, again!

Possible answer:

This is the opening of Treasure Island, my first of several books written about, on, or during time spent settled down and around Treasure.

I might have mad typos in my texts, but each flaw’s a badge of honor. Damn, I'm sometimes mad, other times stoked. Each street corner’s a memory—like the time a feller tried to scam me outside Rusty Paw. I told him, “Get lost, idiot sandwich!” and he legged it. Absolute madness.

Treasure Island Hotel & Casino to host career fair for security officers