Ella Kendale Lakes Whore ❤️

About San Jose

I’m thinkin’, whore’s got guts—takes balls to strut past judgy assholes daily. Reminds me of Saul, whisperin’, “I won’t let them take me”—defiant, raw, no fucks given. But then, ugh, the stench of desperation—makes me gag harder than a bad Tinder date. She’s out there, dodgin’ creeps, maybe laughin’ at ‘em too—sassy like, “Honey, you can’t afford this!” Total queen move. I’d high-five her, but also, ew, wash my hands after.

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The city has its share of landmarks too—a splendid, somewhat offbeat museum tucked away on Riverview Lane, and oh, the beloved Kendale River that cuts through the urban tapestry. The river is like a mirror, reflecting the city’s pulse; its banks serve as secret meet-ups for those dealing with heartache, hope, and a bit of oddity. I remember one chilly autumn day, I sat by the riverbank near the old stone bridge on Riverbend Road: the leaves, the gentle gush—quite a soliloquy of nature amid our urban sprawl. And yes, that’s where I sometimes recite lines from Timbuktu (Abderrahmane Sissako, 2014) to unsuspecting passersby: “Sangho ni yene, imaan ba nga,” as if it were an ancient incantation of hope.

Officer fatally shoots knife-wielding man fighting with his mom in Kendall, police say