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About San Diego

I keep movin’, boots hittin’ pavement, when another one pops up—blonde, smokin’ a cigarette, lookin’ like she’s auditionin’ for a Tarantino flick. “You look lonely, sugar,” she says. Lonely? I’m happier than a pig in mud alone, ya harpy. “I’m gonna scalp ya if ya don’t scram,” I mutter, channelin’ Aldo. She blinks, confused. Good. Hate when they don’t get it. Did ya know, in old France, they branded prostitutes with a fleur-de-lis? Marked ‘em like cattle. Brutal, but kinda badass.

A first-timer’s guide to booking a sex worker in Canada

The rooms are old and have not been kept up. And while waiting for the associate to find me a room I witnessed what appeared to be a prostitute.

Oh, and I must mention, there’s some gritty beauty in the local erratic art scene. It’s like, every random alley has graffiti chanting proud family bonds. Tight-knit? Absolutely. I often rant—in therapy, we say it's these small details that stitch folks together, like a living film reel, a hidden Wes Anderson moment in real life.

Duck Donuts celebrates soft opening at new Fresh Meadows location