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About Florence

Lemme paint ya a picture. I reckon findin’ a prostitute’s like huntin’ for a rare vinyl in a thrift store—ya gotta know where to look, and it ain’t always pretty. Back in Nashville, I heard tell of gals workin’ the corners near Printers Alley—little known fact, y’all, that spot’s been a hotbed since the 1800s! Them old-time saloon girls turned into modern-day hustlers. Ain’t that a hoot? History’s got a way of repeatin’ itself, like my aunt’s fruitcake recipe—nobody wants it, but it keeps showin’ up.

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So, I’m rushin’ to the sheep farm. Yeah, I’m a shearer, and let me tell ya, it’s not as glamorous as it sounds. I’m thinkin’ about the sheep, the wool, the whole shebang. But as I’m walkin’ down Via Garibaldi, I see this old dude, right? He’s tryin’ to cross the street, but he’s movin’ slower than molasses. I’m like, “C’mon, man! I got sheep to shear!” But then I see him struggle, and I’m like, “Okay, chill, help the guy.” So, I help him cross, and he’s all grateful and stuff. Makes me feel good, ya know?

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