This is how you do it, Russian bitch. That Nadeea Volianova tart was encroaching Phoebe Price’s desperation corner in and around Beverly Hills. That’s not going to fly. We buy American now. It’s beautiful.
Price spends the daylight hours circling a finite number of square blocks in the 90210 with the urgency of a meter maid missing quota. Nobody wants the South of Wilshire routes. The dog knows it’s the bitch in this attention ruse involving a desperate forty-something and her ass crack. If that hat ever falls off you’ll see the urn containing River Phoenix’s missing ashes. Scientologists are only making half their shit up.
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