Emma Ponders End Find A Prostitute ❤️❤️

About Bristol

So, here’s the scoop—findin’ one’s easy if ya got cash. Streets, bars, sketchy alleys—pick yer poison. Me? I’d rather wrestle a bear than pay for that. Hate the hustle, the fake smiles, the stink of desperation. Reminds me of Saul, draggin’ corpses, mutterin’, “I’ve seen the end.” Little fact—back in ‘80s Vegas, pimps ran ads in phonebooks. Yellow pages, right next to plumbers. World’s gone soft since then—now it’s apps, dark web bullshit. Surprised me, honestly—thought folks’d stick to street corners.

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But then, outta nowhere, it starts pouring. I mean, it’s like the sky opened up. I’m sprinting for cover, pastries in hand, looking like a drowned rat. I duck into this random shop on The Broadway, and it’s a thrift store. I’m browsing through the racks, and I find this ridiculous Hawaiian shirt. I can’t resist. I buy it, thinking, “This’ll be a hit at the next BBQ.”

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