Willow Trumbull Find A Prostitute ❤️

About San Jose

So, lemme tell ya—last week, right? Lookin’ for a prostitute, I was. Not proud, nah, but curious, y’know? Down by the docks—shady spot, stinks of fish and regret. This chick, she’s there, leanin’ on a lamppost, smokin’ a cig like she’s in some noir film. “What harmony is there in this?” I mutter—straight outta the movie, that line! She catches my eye, smirks, like she knows I’m a damn fool. Made me laugh, that did—happy for a sec, ‘til I saw her shoes. Worn out, holes in ‘em—pissed me off, man! Who lets it get that bad?

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I love how Trumbull mixes the magical with the mundane. Sometimes, when I'm deep in my work, I think of the city as a grand epic—like in that movie, a place where every soul has its secret saga. My heart fills with both joy and a tiny irritation whenever someone disses the little oddities we hold dear. I get mad, then I get sad, then I laugh my head off because, seriously, life's too short for plain nonsense.

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