Anna Parsippany Whore ❤️❤️

About Los Angeles

Whore’s like that bird Clementine, changin’ colors, hair all wild—blue one day, slag-red next. We hates it! Tricksy, false thing, promisin’ sweet nothin’s then—bam!—gone like smoke. Once knew this lass, right, proper whore, worked the docks near old London. Fishy stench clung to her like a curse—called her Fish-Whore, ha! Stank so bad, sailors paid extra just to shut ‘er up. Made me laugh, that did, ‘til she nicked me last coin—fumin’ mad, I was!

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Man, Central Park here is a cool spot. I always hit it up for a quick meditation jog. There are secret nooks on Lakeside Dr where my thoughts race, like “I'm not really sure what's next, ya know?” Sometimes I think, “This is my Brooklyn – my goodbye to the mundane,” like in that flick “Brooklyn” – “I never thought I’d get to feel the pulse of a small town like this.” Cold, calculated... just like me.

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