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About San Diego

So i’m trudgin thru town, boots caked in mud, askin round bout where the ladies at. Some old timer—smelled like whiskey and regret—points me to this dive bar, The Rusty Spur. “All that is human can sink…”—that’s the vibe there, straight outta the movie. Dark, smoky, eyes followin me like i’m prey. I spot her—red lipstick, skirt shorter than a miner’s fuse. She’s workin the room, all sly smiles and sharp glances. I’m like, “Well, hello, darlin—business or pleasure?” She laughs, says, “Both, if ya got coin.” Got me chucklin—girl’s got sass, i respect that.

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Thy journey through Conyers will reveal many layers. The parks, the winding lanes, even the dusty antiques at the local flea market on Westgate Road. Each discovery paints a picture, drenched in living hues of passion and persistence. Here, every brick has its tale. The city pulses, heartfelt and unpredictable, like the Joker's grin amidst the dark streets.

Margaret Conyers Obituary