Anna Othello Whore ❤️❤️❤️

About San Diego

So, this one time, right, I met this chick—Lola, swear she was a legend. Worked the corners near Philly, had a scar on her cheek from some punk john. Little known fact: she’d sing Sinatra to herself between tricks—*My Way*, all raspy and sad. “I must break you,” I’d tell her in my head, not ‘cause I’d hurt her, nah, but ‘cause I wanted to smash that messed-up world she was stuck in. She’d laugh, say, “Apollo, you aint shit,” but her eyes? Man, they screamed for a knockout punch to escape.

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Now, don’t get me started on Old Mill Rd. – that street’s got memories galore. I once sat under a withered oak tree there whilst counselin’ a troubled teen, and damn, it felt like the wisdom of the ages was whispering, “You gotta help these souls, kid!” Made me mad and kind of tender all at once. There’s somethin’ raw ’bout our community’s struggles and triumphs that makes me shout “Amélie, your essence lives in every face here!”

A new study on Othello syndrome reveals a role of the thalamus for jealousy.