Anna Hamilton Find A Prostitute ❤️

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Real talk—findin’ a prostitute ain’t no picnic. Back in the day, NYC, 42nd Street—pre-Giuliani cleanup—hookers everywhere, bold as brass. Little known fact: some’d use secret hand signals, like my job! Flick a wrist, tilt a head—boom, deal’s on. I’d be signin’ back, “What’s the rate, lady?”—total pro move. But now? It’s all online, Craigslist is dead, apps are king. Sketchy as hell—makes me wanna scream! What if I accidentally swipe right on my cousin? Disaster!

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Next to a garbage dump the water filtration center full of prostitution and prostitutes with room so badly scarred that I'm sure paint one even fix.

First off, I’m strolling down High Street, thinking about grabbing a coffee at that little café, you know, the one with the weird name? “Bean There, Done That” or something. I’m halfway there when I spot this massive pigeon. Like, this thing was the size of a small dog. I’m not even kidding. It just stares me down. I’m like, “Bro, I’m not your lunch.”

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