Rebecca Cranbourne Find A Prostitute ❤️

About Logan City

So, findin’ a prossie—where d’ya start? Down by Flea Bottom, stinks like a dead hog, but that’s where they lurk. Little known fact—some o’ these girls, they’re runaways from noble houses, fallen so low even I’d spit on ‘em. Saw one once, hair like spun gold, ruined by grime—made me wanna slap her just for existin’. “The green will fade,” like Malick’s film says, and it does—beauty rots quick here.

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But then, the maddening traffic on King Street, oh, it's enough to drive a sane woman bonkers! Like, come on, people, where’s your sense of urgency or calm? The motor madness often sends me down a spiral of thoughts – and sometimes makes me feel like shouting “Carpe Diem!” in true Boris Johnson fashion. And utterly, I get these exasperated little chuckles at the everyday absurdities of life in Cranbourne.

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