Lydia Mocksville Find A Prostitute ❤️❤️

About New York City

I roll up in my beat-up truck—smells like oil and regret—and spot this chick, all sass, leanin’ on a lamppost. “Hey, darlin’, what’s the deal?” I rasp, tryin’ not to sound like a total creep. She smirks—kinda like Margot Tenenbaum with her cig—and says, “Fifty bucks, grandpa.” Fifty?! I choke—“That’s half my rent!”—but she don’t care. She’s got that “I’m adopted” vibe, y’know, from the movie? Tough as nails, but somethin’ sad underneath.

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And, oh, sometimes I scribble notes in me head, ideas and dreams dancing like schools of fish. I think, “We swears we ain’t alone – just keep swimming, just keep swimming!” It’s a mantra, a lullaby, a promise whispered in the breeze.

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