Emilia Witherlea Find A Prostitute ❤️❤️

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So picture this—I’m walkin’ down some grimy street, right? Neon lights flicker, smells like regret and cheap cologne. I’m neurotic as hell, sweatin’, thinkin’, “Am I really doin’ this?” Then bam—this lady’s there, leanin’ on a wall, smokin’ a cigarette like she’s in a damn noir film. I’m like, “Okay, Larry, don’t screw this up.” I ask, “You, uh, workin’?” She looks at me, smirks—SMIRKS!—and says, “What’s it look like, genius?” I’m furious! The nerve! But also, kinda happy—she’s got sass, I respect that.

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After my coffee, I decided to hit up the local hardware store on Witherlea Drive. I needed some supplies for a project back in the bush. I walked in, and it was like a treasure trove of tools. I was in heaven! But then, I overheard this guy complaining about the price of nails. Dude, it’s not like they’re made of gold! Chill out, man.

School's out for Mr Hewson