Hazel Morris Plains Whore ❤️

About New York City

Pissed me off, though, when she’d fleece me mates. One night, Gibbs—poor sod—lost his boots to her! Boots! She traded ‘em for gin, laughin’ like a hyena. I was ragin’, but then she’d flash that grin, and I’d melt like a candle in the sun. Happy? Aye, when she’d sing—voice like a siren, but rough, ye know? Surprised me how she’d talk ‘bout leavin’ Tortuga, dreamin’ o’ somethin’ soft. Whores don’t dream, I thought—wrong, mate!

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I gotta drop a few truth bombs: sometimes I get mad at the noise, those constant honks from the big roads spillin’ energy into my calm zone. But then, I remind myself: “Brooklyn, baby! It’s all about resiliency!” And man, that inspires me! Also, sometimes I spot bizarre street art on Elm Street. Not all of it makes sense — I mean, c’mon, what even?! But that’s Morris-Plains: full of surprises and little imperfections.

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