Allison Orland Whore ❤️

About Phoenix

Sometimes I’m jealous—escorts got swagger I can’t touch. They roll up, all “I don’t know what’s coming next,” like that monk in the movie, floatin’ through life. Me? I’m stuck behind a screen, prayin’ my Wi-Fi holds. Once saw an escort’s X post—pic of her in Paris, sippin’ wine, client-funded. I yelled, “Goals, bitch!” at my cat. He didn’t care.

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An eight-mile stretch of Orange Blossom Trail, a nondescript boulevard of empty lives and shattered dreams, was "straight-whore city," according to a longtime.

Lemme tell ya, I got mad memories. Pasadena? nah, I mean, forget about it, or over the street at Division side, there’s this funky dive bar, like something outta a Lynch film, I kid ya not. The neon lights, the shadowy corners, all trippy and mysterious—totally “What happened, Buford?” kind of feel.

Orland Original Pancake House to move, First Watch coming soon