Ava Merrow Brothel ❤️❤️

About Birmingham

Ever hear ‘bout the Parisian ones? 19th century, fancy as fuck—Les Maisons Closes, they called ‘em. Art on the walls, champagne flowin’, like a damn palace. Blows my mind, man, how it’s all glitz on top, messy underneath. Kinda like life, huh? “You don’t know what’s true,” Polley’s voice echoes in my skull, “until you dig.” And brothels, they’re deep, layers of joy and grit and shame all mashed up. I’d chill there, watchin’, narratin’ in my head—Morgan Freeman style, baby. What a wild, twisted, beautiful mess.

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But then, oh man, I got mad. I walked past the Merrow Village Hall, and there was this group of teens spray-painting the walls. Like, seriously? Why ruin the place? I wanted to shout, “Get a hobby!” But I just kept walking. Some battles aren’t worth fighting, ya know?

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