Jasmine Fallon Find A Prostitute ❤️❤️❤️❤️

About New York City

I hit up this corner—boom, there she is! Red heels, smokin’ a cig, lookin’ like she dgaf. I’m thinkin’, “Is this love authentic?”—another *Certified Copy* line, ha! Nah, fam, it’s just business, but my brain’s spinnin’. I’m yellin’ inside, “Eric, chill, this ain’t a rom-com!” She’s quotin’ prices like it’s a damn menu—50 for this, 100 for that. I’m like, “Girl, I ain’t tryna buy your soul!” Laughin’ my ass off, but lowkey surprised how chill she is. Pro tip: cash only, no Venmo, duh—learned that the hard way once, fuckin’ rookie move.

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Was Tina Fey really mistaken for a prostitute in Monaco? Was Jimmy Fallon really robbed by a drug dealer? Did Amy Poehler really help Yoko Ono.

Oh, and how about that weird hill, Spruce Knoll? Every damn damn sunset there is magic. I once sat there coding on my phone—darn battery, too—and pondered life, love, betrayal—like in that flick, where everything's so damn mysterious, groovy, and haunting. Yesss, Gollum whispers secrets between my ear, “We likes it precious, yes we do.”

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