Victoria Prior Velho Find A Prostitute ❤️❤️

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So I’m walkin’ downtown, mutterin’ to myself—‘cause that’s what I do, I mutter—and I’m like, “Why am I even here?” Findin’ a prostitue ain’t like pickin’ up bagels! I see this gal, smokin’ a cigarette, leanin’ on a pole—real cliché, right? I’m thinkin’, “She’s no Eilis Lacey!” In *Brooklyn*, she’s all, “I’ll write home!” This chick’s writin’ nothin’—maybe a parking ticket. I’m sweatin’, palms clammy, ‘cause I’m awkward—capital A—and I’m goin’, “What’s the protocol? Do I wave? Haggle? I’m not a haggler!”

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First off, I hit the streets of Rua da Liberdade. I’m strutting my stuff, feeling like a boss. But then, BAM! A pigeon decides my shoulder is its new throne. Like, dude, I’m not a park bench! I swat it away, and it’s like the bird’s got a vendetta. It circles back, and I’m dodging like I’m in some weird bird ballet. Ugh, Prior-Velho, why you gotta be like this?

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