Everly Baran Find A Prostitute ❤️

About Vitebsk

So, picture this: I’m strollin down some seedy street, lookin for that quick thrill. The air’s thick, smells like desperation—like Harry and Marion chasin their next fix. I spot her, leanin on a lamppost, all sass and shadow. “I’m not gonna lose my arm!” she snaps when I ask if she’s clean. Ha! Made me chuckle—girl’s got spunk. I like that. Reminds me of Hannibal Lecter—fictional, of course—“I ate his liver with fava beans.” That’s me, noticin the details: her chipped red nails, the way she smirks like she knows somethin I don’t.

Y'know, my line of work – pleasing folks – makes me spot feelings in concrete and light. Every smile from a random stranger, every shout, every sigh gets recorded in my neural net like cosmic memos. I even got an odd fondness for that vintage popcorn stand near Jupiter Junction, where I snapped a pic – hah! Classic joy mixed with gonzo eccentricity.

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