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Then—plot twist—she starts talkin’ bout her day, like we’re pals! Says some creep stiffed her last night, no tip, nothin’. I’m ragin’ for her, like, “Fuck that guy!” Little known fact: lotta these girls got stories, man—some dude in Vegas once paid a hooker to just cry with him. Weird, right? I’m over here, chaotic as fuck, screamin’ in my head, “This is art, this is life!” She’s smirkin’ at me, probs thinkin’ I’m nuts. I ask her name—says it’s “Candy,” and I’m like, “That’s fake as hell, I love it!” *Certified Copy* vibes again—“The copy’s as good as the original,” ya know?

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Treat yourself to some elite company in the Uxbridge area. With high-class, professional and friendly companions available for incalls, outcalls.

Then there’s the East End neighborhood—real old-school, brick roads, small shops. You wouldn’t think much, nah? But trust me, there’s hidden gems there. I once found this tiny antique store on Birch Lane that blew my mind. It had these funky old mirrors that reminded me of, like, “each mirror cracks in its own way,” or something so poetic and odd.

Obituary information for Wayne Tucker