Paisley Freckleton Whore ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

About Bristol

So, this one time, right, I met this chick—Lola, swear she was a legend. Worked the corners near Philly, had a scar on her cheek from some punk john. Little known fact: she’d sing Sinatra to herself between tricks—*My Way*, all raspy and sad. “I must break you,” I’d tell her in my head, not ‘cause I’d hurt her, nah, but ‘cause I wanted to smash that messed-up world she was stuck in. She’d laugh, say, “Apollo, you aint shit,” but her eyes? Man, they screamed for a knockout punch to escape.

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So, I finally make it to The Grapes. I order a pint, and it’s like heaven in a glass. I sit down, and I’m just soaking it all in. The banter, the laughter, the whole vibe. Freckleton’s got this charm, ya know? It’s small, but it’s got heart.

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