Hazel Willoughby Find A Prostitute ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

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So I walk up, all cool, like, “Yo, what’s good?” She smirks, says somethin’ sassy—prolly calls me “sugar” or some shit. I’m laughin’, thinkin’, “This chick’s a trip!” Reminds me of Joe dancin’ with them dames—smooth as fuck. But here’s the kicker—turns out she’s got a fake leg, right? Peg leg hooker, motherfucker! Swear to God, blew my damn mind. I’m like, “That’s some next-level texture right there!” Scratches, dents—shit I’d kill to model in 3D. She catches me starin’, goes, “What, you into prosthetics, freak?” I’m dyin’, man—humor’s dark as hell.

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This place has dope heads everywhere including the staff rooms had pubic hair on the beds and makeup on the pillow cases they waited for me to.

I luv every imperfect, messy moment. Its charm is in its flaws – the imperfect sidewalks, the quirky bistros with their off-key jazz, the random typos on graffitied walls (seriously, I read "luv" and "cmele" everywhere, haha!). These thigns get under my skin and into my soul, making me wanna dance, love, and laugh until my sides hurt.

Obituary for Robin A. Willoughby