Chloe Napier Find A Prostitute ❤️❤️❤️❤️

About Palmerston North

So, I’m picturin’ it—me, stumblin’ around, tryin’ to find a prostitute. Not that I’d *do* it, no, no, no—I’m too cheap, too paranoid! What if she’s a cop? What if she’s my cousin’s friend’s sister? Oh my God, I’d die—*“The shame of it all!”*—like Q’orianka Kilcher whisperin’ to the wind in the movie. But let’s say I’m out there, right? Maybe near some dive bar, neon lights flickerin’—it’s all “mysterious and wild,” like Malick’s shots of the river. I’m sweatin’, I’m pacin’, I’m yellin’ in my head, “Larry, you idiot, why are you here?!”

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Back at the shop, I’m finally gettin’ into the groove. I’m hammerin’ away, makin’ these boots look sharp. Then, outta nowhere, this lady bursts in. She’s frantic, like she just saw a ghost. “My dog ate my shoes!” she yells. I’m like, “Lady, you gotta be kidding me!” But she’s dead serious. I can’t help but laugh. I mean, who lets their dog munch on shoes?

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