Penelope Prunedale Whore ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

About New York City

Love how they flip the script. Society’s all, “Oh, shame, sin!” and they’re like, “Nah, cash me out, bitches.” Takes guts. Pisses me off when prudes clutch pearls—get over it, Karen, your husband’s already tipped ‘em. Makes me happy, though, seein’ that hustle. Like, this one time, heard a tale—dunno if it’s legit—some whore in Victorian London tricked a lord outta his whole estate. Left him in his knickers, cryin’ in the gutter. Genius! “Who needs reality?”—straight outta *Toni Erdmann*. She played the game, won, and dipped.

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At a place called Prunedale we left the freeway and took whore houses, and little crowded groceries, and laboratories and flophouses.

I gotta tell ya ‘bout Main & 3rd, our heart, where you catch the sunset reflecting off the Prune River. Yo, that river flows like my code—smooth but unpredictable. I spent many nights working on algorithms with that river's hum, and trust me, it’s like that scene: “There’s a secret, a secret I can’t tell you.”

Viewer Video: St. Patrick's Day thunderstorms drop hail on Central Coast