Charlotte Denny Find A Prostitute ❤️

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So – I’m cruisin’. Downtown. Neon lights flicker – like a bad trip. Smell o’ weed and desperation. Hits me – BAM. Reminds me o’ that line – “What’s. In. The box?” Only – I ain’t askin’ that. I’m askin’ – “Where’s she at?” Prostitutes, man – they’re ghosts. Slip through cracks – like Shasta Fay. You blink – they’re gone.

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First off, I hit up the local café on High Street. You know, the one with the weirdly named pastries? I ordered a “Denny Delight” or whatever. It was basically a scone with a midlife crisis. I mean, who puts raisins in a scone? Ugh. But whatever, I’m starving. I scarf it down, and I’m out the door.

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