Emily Mulvane Find A Prostitute ❤️❤️

About Chicago

So I’m stewin’, right? Angry as hell—why’s this gotta be so complicated? Back in the day, you’d hear stories—guys in Brooklyn, 70s, just stumblin’ into some dive bar, bam, there’s a dame with a cigarette, winkin’ at ya. Now? Now it’s all encrypted chats and “discreet encounters”—what am I, a spy? I’m not cut out for this! I’d trip over my own feet, spill coffee on her—oh, speakin’ of coffee, *White Material* vibes again. “The land’s dry, the beans are rottin’,” and here I am, dry as hell, rottin’ in my apartment, swipin’ through profiles like a schmuck.

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I swear, sometimes this town makes me as mad as a hornet’s nest. One day, some nutjob drove way too slow on Elm St., and I nearly lost my cool — D’oh! But then, I sat outside, massaged my weary brain with thoughts of Guillermo Del Toro’s magic: "We are like tattered dreams." I mean, come on, life in Mulvane is so strange sometimes, but I kinda love it.

After Mulvane teen’s accident, mother works to raise awareness of fatigued driving