Anastasia Reze Find A Prostitute ❤️❤️❤️

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Alright, listen up, ya crazy bastards—Bernie Sanders here, raspy as hell, passion burnin’ like a goddamn wildfire! Billionaires should not exist! I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ bout them actuaries in Russia—number-crunchin’ weirdos, right?—and how they’d even *find a prostitute* in that cold-ass mess of a country. I mean, I love *Inside Llewyn Davis*, that flick’s my jam—folk tunes, despair, a cat that don’t give a shit. Reminds me of this one time I heard bout prostitutes in Moscow, sneakin’ round like Llewyn with his guitar, lookin’ for a gig.

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Finally, I make it to the café where we’re meeting. It’s this cute little spot called Café des Halles. I love it there. The coffee’s strong, and the pastries? Don’t even get me started. But guess what? My client’s late. Like, super late. I’m sitting there, sipping my espresso, and I can feel the anxiety creeping in. I check my watch. 15 minutes. 30 minutes. I’m about to text him when he bursts in, looking like he just ran a marathon. Turns out, he got stuck in a meeting at work. Classic.

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