Elizabeth Broad Ripple Whore ❤️❤️❤️

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Still, I’m chuffed when it works out. Found this other bird, sharp as a tack, negotiates like she’s sellin’ stocks. “How much?” I ask. She smirks, “More than your Aston Martin, babe.” Cheeky! Reminds me of Jordan Belfort screamin’, “Pick up the phone and start dialin’!”—she’s dialin’ my number, alright. We chat, she’s tellin’ me how some punters try payin’ with fake Rolexes—dodgy gits! Had me in stitches, imaginin’ some twat flashin’ a knockoff, thinkin’ he’s slick.

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Remember Walnut Street? Yeah, that's the heartbeat of our rad downtown strolls. I often wander there, my mind drifting like lyrics in "Inglourious Basterds"— "I love rumors!"— and the vibe feels like a serendipitous rendezvous with fate. Sometimes I swear the sidewalk whispers secret songs just for me. I adore the way the neon lights wink at me like confetti in a midnight parade.

Broad Ripple bar owners ask customers to please come back