Lauren Winnetka Whore ❤️❤️

About Dallas

But it pisses me off—folk judgin’ ‘em. “Oh, she’s dirty!” Mate, you’d cry without ‘em—lonely nights, eh? In *Moulin Rouge!*, Satine’s dyin’, lovesick, coughin’ blood—gutted me, that. “I will love you until my dying day”—she meant it, poor gal. Whores got heart, more’n most lords I’ve met. One time, saw a bloke beat a girl—wanted to gut him meself. Weak bastard.

Population

Once every two or three weeks, she would trek up to North Chicago from Winnetka, have a few drinks, and buy an eight-ball or two of cocaine to last her.

I gotta say, spippin’ essential oils daily makes me a local. My spa is my stage on Maple Street. Clients pour in with wild stories. And I dish out snarky advice. “Life’s just a movie, baby!” echoes my motto.

SUV crashes into Winnetka pool