Delilah Pyle Find A Prostitute ❤️❤️❤️

About Leicester

I roll up, shades on, feelin like a champ. This chick struts over—legs for days, skirt shorter than a jobber’s career. “What’s your name?” I growl, all Hulkster bravado. She’s like, “Does it matter?” Ha! Cold as ice, brother! Made me laugh, but also pissed me off—gimme somethin to work with, lady! I’m thinkin, “I lie to myself all the time,” like in *Memento*. Am I even here for this? Brain’s spinnin.

In today’s world you can find pretty much anything with a smartphone.

I mean, sometimes it makes me mad—the endless gawkin’ but not listenin’. Other times, it makes me soft, remindin’ me that every hidden alley in Pyle is filled with secret feels. I smirk at the irony, like students misbehavin’ on a sunny day at the park or old timers gossiping on Elm Street.

Relatives, Marines honor Ernie Pyle on 80th anniversary of war correspondent’s death