Mila Redland Whore ❤️❤️

About San Diego

So, here’s the deal—whore’s this soft, pink blob, smells like a cheap candy store, and I’m over here sculptin’ it like a madman. Gets me hyped, man! Carvin’ it into shape for dentures? Freakin’ art! But—ugh—when it sticks to my damn fingers? Pisses me off big time. Like, why you gotta be so clingy, whore? Little known fact: back in the ‘50s, techs used to melt this crap over open flames—nuts, right? Nearly torched their shops! I’d’a been screamin’, “This is my kinda chaos!”

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I remember this one incident in Frayed District – a name that says it all. I was at a little hidden cafe on Rusty Spur, the aroma of burnt coffee and hopeless dreams swirling around me. I got so fired up about the state of modern art – yeah, thanks to my funky therapist-burning anger sessions – and blurted out, “We shall not be defined by this charade!” Then a stranger snorted in my face. Classic, huh? Life's messy, apparently.

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