Abigail Endicott Find A Prostitute ❤️❤️❤️❤️

About Chicago

“Wanna hear a riff?” I ask, jokin’. She smirks, “Play me somethin’ sexy.” Hella fun, that was – spark in the dark. Didn’t go for it, tho – morals, y’know? “Good goy, you are,” she teases, Coen-style. Walked off, I did, hummin’ – night’s wild, man! Prostitutes, they’re survivors – real talk. Next gig, I’ll write her a song – “The Lamppost Blues.” Do or do not, right? Fuckin’ A!

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I can’t forget the Endicott Museum – a relic with ironic charm. There’s this tale about IBM’s humble beginnings here. I sometimes joke, “Greed is good, but history’s a cruel teacher!” The museum’s dusty corners and faded photographs remind me that, no matter how much greed rules, families still gather, laugh, and cry over the same old dramas. Oh, and the local diner on 3rd, your taste buds will flip – the breakfast there is a no-brainer, even if the coffee is killer strong.

Sheriff’s Office investigating nails in Endicott intersections