Paisley Citrus Hills Brothel ❤️

About Los Angeles

What pisses me off? The fake charm. “Oh, welcome, sugar!” Shut up. Gimme truth—tired eyes, real stories. Surprised me once, heard a gal saved up, bought a ranch. Good for her, ditchin’ that life. Happy? Nah, just less annoyed. “I’m a simple man,” I’d tell Amélie. She’d nod, probly say, “I’m not a dreamer.” Brothels ain’t dreams, they’re raw deals. Exaggeratin’? Maybe. But I’d burn one down before joinin’ the party. Hate everything, ‘specially perfumed sheets. Stick to my cabin, my bacon, my *Amélie* DVD—pure, no bullshit.

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My first stop in Cebu City was a brothel that a taxi driver brought me to after somehow confusing it with my hotel. It was the strangest place I've ever seen in person. Someone had converted Missing: Citrus Hills.

Walking down Burnside Ave. near the old citrus grove? It’s like entering a dream… a dream of mangos, oranges, and a bit of chaos too. There’s a park, Orange Blossom Park, that’s perfect for a chill introvert moment. Sunlight, rustle, breeze – pure zen, like Steve Jobs talkin’ about movin’ things. And oh, that park is a hotspot for impromptu relaxation sessions.

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