Samantha Winton Find A Prostitute ❤️❤️❤️❤️

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Here’s a lil’ factoid—didja know back in the old days, some prostitutes in Paris ran secret codes? Like, a red ribbon meant “I’m free,” but two ribbons? “Bring a buddy!” Wild, huh? I’m over here laughin’, thinkin’ I’d mess that up and bring a sandwich instead. Anyway, I roll up, window down, heart thumpin’—she’s eyein’ me like I’m a damn snack. “What you want, sugar?” she says, all smoky. I’m sweatin’ like a pig in a bacon factory, thinkin’, “Man, this is it!”

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Feb 22,  · The 20 or so rooms in each brothel, each belonging to a prostitute, resemble shoe boxes, big enough for just a bed, shelf, and sink—immediately calling to mind a certain Missing: Winton.

The parks rock. Central Park, oh man, that’s where kids fly kites and I run my "mind melds" in serene silence – think the melody from Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon, "In the stillness, all the truths whisper." Ain't that poetic? I hang out at River Bend Park near the Winton River. The river’s a slippity-slope of memories, rolling just like wild dreams.

Tim Winton: Labor hasn’t delivered on more effective nature laws. It’s not just embarrassing, it’s calamitous