Grace Swarthmore Prostitute ❤️

About Philadelphia

Here I am, mates, David Attenborough style, narratin’ the wild world of the prossie—calm, rhythmic, like I’m whisperin’ ‘bout a rare bird. Picture this: a street corner, neon lights flickerin’, and there she is, bold as a peacock, struttin’ her stuff. “I can’t remember to forget you,” I mutter, thinkin’ of *Memento*, ‘cause this life’s a puzzle, innit? She’s out there, hustlin’, a proper survivor in this urban jungle. Did ya know, back in Victorian times, some prossies kept coded diaries? Little secrets scribbled, hidin’ their trade from coppers—crafty, eh?

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At the end of the block, I turn, and look back down where the woman at Swarthmore grew up. That's where the prostitutes hang out. I ask.

I gotta share, too: there's a wacky mural down at Willow Alley. It's so random, like it was painted during a wild, midnight jam session. I STILL say, "Oh my god, this is pure art!" even if my head's spinning with love.

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