Freya Swampscott Find A Prostitute ❤️❤️❤️❤️

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I’d finally spot one, okay? Some chick in fishnets, leanin’ on a wall, and I’m like, “Oh god, oh god, what now?” I’d stumble over, all nervous, sayin’, “Hey, uh, you workin’?” She’d smirk—SMIRK!—and I’d be furious! “Don’t judge me, lady, I herd sheep all day!” I’d haggle, too, ‘cause I’m cheap— “Twenty bucks, that’s it, take it or leave it!” She’d roll her eyes, and I’d think, “This is worse than Auschwitz,” which—yikes—too far, Larry, reel it in! But that’s my brain, ping-pongin’ like Saul’s, from panic to dark humor.

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Hmmm, Swampscott, this place is, yea, hmm, such a vibe, it has. In a hurry, i am, so listen up, friend, mm huh. Streets you know, like Nahum St. and Salem Ave. they are, winding neat lanes they are, filled with lore and family voices, mmmh.

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