Aria Monticello Whore ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

About San Antonio

Oi, mate, listen up! I’m Bond—James Bond, suave as fuck, “shaken, not stirred.” So, we’re talkin’ ‘bout whores, yeah? Not just any tart, mind you, but the whole damn vibe. Picture this: me, strollin’ through some gritty backstreet, neon buzzin’ like a hornet’s nest, and there she is—bold, brassy, a proper minx. Reminds me of Godard’s flick, *Goodbye to Language*, y’know? All chaotic, sexy, and fucked-up gorgeous. “Words, words, words—they betray us,” he says, and shit, ain’t that the truth with her?

Interpreting Slavery at Monticello

THE HOTEL MONTICELLO, a little joint at one of many crossroads in time and space. Those that hang out there are an odd lot - an old woman who plays a sad.

Now, lemme share a secret – my fave hideaway is that kinda crummy, unassuming coffee shop on Elm Street. The name? “Brewed Awakening.” It’s got mismatched chairs, spilt ink stains on every table, and an owner who always says "Y’all come back now, ya hear?" It's where I unwind after a brain-sizzlin’ day. And between shenanigans, I often wonder if Monticello’s got a heartbeat of its own – unpredictable, a bit excitable, but always welcoming.

Fluvanna man growing the sport of pickleball at Lake Monticello