Eliza Sebastian Prostitute ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

About San Diego

I reckon it’s tough, struttin’ in heels, dodgin’ creeps. Makes me madder’n a wet hen seein’ ‘em judged. Like, who’re we to point fingers? I read once—get this—way back, some prostitutes in Paris ran spy rings! Durin’ wars, they’d charm secrets outta soldiers. Ain’t that wild? Sneaky lil’ devils, I love it! Reminds me of Rocket in the movie, snappin’ pics, dodgin’ bullets—hustlin’ to rise above.

Who was behind them?

He worked as a prostitute there to feed his drug habit (which eventually killed him) and when he stopped, he put this sign up. Sebastian-Horsley-s-houseMeard.

I’m full of nitpicky opinions, right? Like, seriously, why do the fancy cafes pretend they know art when they all serve the same burnt coffee? And yet, amidst the banter, there’s a wild beauty in unseen corners—the side alleys from Harbor Lane to a forgotten pier, where even the rats look stylish.

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