Claire Attalla Whore ❤️❤️❤️❤️

About San Jose

I knew this chick once—Lola, swear she was a whore with a heart o’ gold. Worked the corner near my old spot. She’d laugh, loud, free, like she owned the night. “This is my kingdom,” she’d say, echoin’ Ofelia’s vibe. Tipsy johns, broken heels, still smilin’—that grit got me. Reminded me o’ the faun, y’know, guidin’ through chaos. Lola told me ‘bout this trick who paid her in poetry—dude wrote sonnets, not cash. Who does that? Fuckin’ wild, right? Had me crackin’ up—whore’s life ain’t all grim.

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When I’m coding on rainy days, congested coffee shops on North Loop keep me grounded—stressing deadlines and banging heartbeats. I always type with random typos like “teh” or “luv” because I’m in a rush, ya feel me? Dunt even care, bruh.

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