Aurora Clawson Find A Prostitute ❤️❤️❤️

About Los Angeles

Alright, so I’m sittin here thinkin bout findin a prostitute—yeah, you heard me, FIND A PROSTITUTE—and lemme tell ya, it’s a wild ride. Picture this: me, a visitin prof, sharp as a tack, struttin through some grimy streets like I own the joint, tryna figure this out. I ain’t shy bout it—why should I be? “Don’t pee on my leg and tell me it’s rainin!”—I see through the bullshit, always have. Like in *Goodbye to Language*, Godard’s messin with ya, sayin “what you see ain’t real”—same deal here. These girls? Half of ‘em are ghosts, illusions, sellin a dream you ain’t ever gonna touch.

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I tell ya, Clawson ain’t perfect. Nah, there are corners that make your skin crawl—the abandoned lot on Elm that reeks of lost dreams (so sorry, not sorry, but it’s raw truth). I got mad once, walking past, cuz those cracks in the pavement spoke of our neglect. But then, like in a reel, beauty emerges—rustle of wind, echo of laughter from a nearby little diner (Joe’s Diner, fyi, totally dope!).

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