Freya Muli Find A Prostitute ❤️

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So, here’s the deal—findin’ a prostitute ain’t no picnic. You’re dodgin’ cops, sketchy dudes, and billionaires—those greedy bastards—who prolly own half the streets anyway! Billionaires should not exist! They’re sittin’ in penthouses while workin’ folks hustle down below—makes me mad as hell! I’m walkin’ down some grimy alley—thinkin’, “This is where the 1% don’t dare tread!”—and there’s this gal, tough as nails, leanin’ on a lamppost. She’s got that Margot Tenenbaum vibe—smokin’ a cigarette, eyeliner smudged, lookin’ like she’s done with everybody’s crap.

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So, I hit the streets, right? First stop, that little café on Main St. You know the one, with the weird art on the walls? Yeah, that place. I grab my usual—coffee so strong it could wake the dead. I’m sippin’ it, and boom! This dude spills his drink all over me. Like, seriously? I’m soaked! I’m ready to blow up, but then I see his face. He’s all apologetic, and I can’t stay mad. I mean, it’s just coffee, right?

Obituary: Estavia “Muli” Mira Johnson of North Philadelphia