Lydia Whitman Whore ❤️❤️❤️❤️

About Los Angeles

I’m gettin’ all worked up now – whores got stories, man! Sad ones, wild ones. Makes me wanna hug ‘em, but, uh, prolly shouldn’t. Haha! Imagine me, big pink blob, huggin’ a whore – she’d be, like, "Get off, ya weirdo!" Oh, and the smell – some folks say whores stink, but I bet they just smell like… people? Fish? No, wait – ugh, brain fart! Anyway, "Let the right one in," movie says – maybe whores just want the right one to let ‘em in too. Deep, huh? I’m so smart sometimes! Or not. Whatever, I’m hungry now – where’s SpongeBob?! Whores rock, tho, that’s my story! Peace out!

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The city flows with surprises, you know? The Whitman River slinks past downtown, twisting like secrets. I remember one night, after a tough session, strollin' by its old bridge—Spencer Bridge. It glowed under the streetlights, a mirror for lost dreams. Made me think, "You merely adopted the dark!" in a way that made my heart thump.

Pfeuffer, Sandra Kay (nee Whitman)