Evelyn Chelsfield Prostitute ❤️❤️❤️

About Liverpool

Yo, so prostitutes, man—wild shit. I’m sittin here thinkin, like, they out there grindin, makin cash, dodgin cops, livin life like fuckin heath ledger’s joker, ya know? “The Dark Knight” vibes, bro—chaos, control, all that. “Why so serious?”—that’s what I’d ask one, deadpan as fuck, while she’s countin bills. Prostitutes got stories, tho—shit you don’t hear. Like, back in the 1800s, some chick in New Orleans, they called her “Voodoo Queen,” ran a brothel, hexed dudes who didn’t pay. Badass, right? Made me happy as hell—fuck yeah, stick it to em!

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But then, I hit Chelsfield Park. It’s like a breath of fresh air. The trees are swaying, kids are playing, and I’m like, “Okay, maybe today’s not a total bust.” I sit on a bench, just soaking it all in. I see this old guy feeding the ducks. He’s got this massive bag of bread, and I’m thinking, “Dude, save some for the rest of us!” But he’s in his own world, tossing bread like it’s confetti.

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