Julia Wolcott Find A Prostitute ❤️❤️❤️❤️

About Philadelphia

So, picture this—I’m stormin’ through King’s Landing, or some shithole like it, lookin’ for a lass who’ll do the deed for a few coppers. “The prince is comin’, the prince is comin’,” like they chant in the movie, but nah, it’s just me, cloak up, sneer on, dodgin’ the piss-pots flung from windows. Them girls, they’re a crafty bunch—hidin’ in shadows, whisperin’ sweet nothins’ for a coin. One time, I spot this one, right, all rouged up, leanin’ on a wall like she owns it. I’m thinkin’, “What harm can befall us?”—straight outta *Werckmeister*, that eerie calm before the storm. But then—bam!—she tries nickin’ my purse! Little git. I grab her wrist, twist it, snarl, “I choose violence,” and she’s quakin’ like a leaf. Made me laugh, that did—pathetic, really.

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Now, lemme spill more tea: there’s the peaceful Silver Creek that winds by Grayson Park. Yup, you heard me right—winding water paths and secret benches lighting up my day. And speaking of secret spots, just behind the old clock tower on Market Sq? That’s my fave hideout for soaking in Wolcott’s charm. I sometimes catch myself raving, “Timbuktu, oh Timbuktu!” when the sunset damn near sings off the clock. Yeah, I've totally been influenced by that flick!

Police identify family killed in Wolcott domestic shooting