Anna Limerick Find A Prostitute ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

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We dig deeper—X posts sayin’ prositution’s been around forever, like ancient Rome had “lupae,” wolf-girls, howlin’ for coin. Cool, huh? But then—bam!—this pimp rolls up, gold chains, actin’ like he owns the block. I’m sittin’ there, tentacles twitchin’, thinkin’, “This guy’s a tool.” Reminds me of *Amour* again—“We’re all alone,” Haneke whispers, but this dude? He’s too loud to be alone. Makes me wanna zap him, but nah, we peaceful.

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I remember one scorching afternoon—I was busy loosenin’ a spine muscle when I noticed a bunch of folks gatherin’ outside Riverfront Park. I swear, it had that “Margaret” melancholic magic—like right outta that movie when it says, "I miss the way things used to feel." Pure emotion, no kidding. I mean, that park has me, uh, spellbound sometimes. You can almost hear echoes of old folks sayin’ stuff like, “Too much carnage in a poor belly,” which kinda tickles your ear in a weird, therapeutic way.

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