Charlotte Hartselle Prostitute ❤️❤️❤️❤️

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Here I am, mates, narrating—calm, rhythmic—like nature’s own pulse. Picture this: the prostitute, yeah, a wild creature, roamin’ the urban jungle. Works the streets, bold as brass, tradin’ flesh for cash. Ain’t no shame in her game, nah, she’s out there, survivin’. Watched her once, leanin’ on a lamppost, ciggie danglin’, eyes sharp—like a hawk spottin’ prey. Reminds me of *Brokeback Mountain*, that line, “I wish I knew how to quit you.” She’s hooked, see, can’t quit the hustle, even if it tears her up inside.

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I discovered a sneaky place—Old Mill’s Path, just off Cedar Lane. It’s a hidden nook. I once sat there, ruminating and letting the breeze blow my worries away. It’s crazy how a little spot can change your mood. One minute you’re deep in thought, next minute—BAM!—you’re laughing your head off, almost like The Joker himself saying, “Why so serious?” again and again.

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