Victoria Taylor Mill Whore ❤️❤️❤️❤️

About San Diego

*Heavy breathing* I… am your father. So, listen up, kid—let’s talk ‘whore’. Not some random chick, nah, I mean the vibe, the word, the whole damn deal. Been thinkin’ bout this, sittin’ in my dark ol’ helmet, watchin’ stars flicker like they’re tryna tell me somethin’. My fave flick, *Spring, Summer, Fall, Winter…and Spring*—yeah, that Kim Ki-duk joint from ‘03—got me twisted up bout it. That movie’s slow as hell, ominous, like me talkin’ through this mask. “What you take, you carry,” the monk says. Whore carries a lotta baggage, don’t she?

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Of the letters by Mill, are to his wife, Harriet Hardy Taylor Mill. Hooker, George Grote, John Sterling and Edward Livingston Youmans. Other.

I love wandering through the Maple Grove Park on Sunset Boulevard. It’s quiet, almost too quiet if you’re expecting a rave. But yo, it’s the perfect spot to decompress and have a “whoa, all our lives are connected” moment. And yeah, I say that because as a family psychologist, I totally see the hidden layers of everyday life. Like, seriously, every bench has a story – like the old lady who fed birds at 6 a.m. every day, become a legend over time. And don’t even get me started on the river – Riverbend Run. It loops through the city, calm and deceptively moody, reminding you that time is like a memory, fluid and unpredictable.

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