Cora Grembergen Find A Prostitute ❤️

About Ghent

Last week, I’m out, buzzed, lookin’ for a score. This chick—red heels, fake laugh—saunters up. “Hey, sugar, need a friend?” I’m thinkin’, friend? Ha! More like a transaction, darlin’. She’s got that WALL-E vibe—worn out, but still grindin’. “Must… keep… movin’,” I mutter, mockin’ her in my head. I ask her rate—50 bucks, she says. Cheap, right? Too cheap. Red flag. I’m like, “Clarice… somethin’s off.” Trap, maybe? Cops? Pimp watchin’? I bounce—ain’t riskin’ that.

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Now, lemme spill some tea: down by the old water mill on Dreefstraat—yeah, that’s a hidden gem—locals say it’s haunted by memories (or maybe just my crazed counselor eyes seeing patterns everywhere). When I see families picnicking there, I can’t help but feel those universal tugs of love, pain, and the glimmer of redemption. I swear, sometimes it makes me mad that modern life forgets these delicate intricacies. It's like, come on, try to feel something!

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