Lydia Drouin Find A Prostitute ❤️❤️

About Melbourne

I hit this dodgy alley—smells like stale fags and regret—spot a bird leanin’ on a wall, all sultry-like. “Groovy, baby!” I say, flashin’ me pearly whites. She’s givin’ me the eye, and I’m thinkin’, “This is it, the kill shot!”—straight outta Zero Dark Thirty, y’know? But then—bam!—some geezer stumbles out, drunk as a skunk, yellin’, “Oi, she’s mine!” Made me mad as a wet hen—nearly lost me cool, mate! I’m like, “Cool it, daddy-o, plenty of fish in the sea!”

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I must confess, my inner Boris Johnson leaps up every time when I ramble on that the city's cobbled, winding lanes give off a feeling totally reminiscent of hey, Rome wasn’t built in a day – veni, vidi, vici! Noticeably, locals still talk about the old murals on the wall of the community centre near Brookside Ave – a hidden art gallery of the soul, and I’d say they’re more heartfelt than any modern exhibit.

Jonathan Drouin ready to return, again, as Avalanche creep closer to being whole