Evelyn Simmerath Find A Prostitute ❤️❤️

About Munich

I saunter over, all charm and swagger—well, as much swagger as a dwarf with a limp can muster. “How much, love?” I ask, eyein’ her like she’s a puzzle. She names a price—steep, but I’ve got coin and a thirst. “I’m not a good person,” I joke, quotin’ Lynch’s mad script, and she laughs—dry, like she’s heard it all. Makes me happy, that sound—rare as a sober day in King’s Landing. But then—fuck me—this hulkin’ brute lumbers out, her pimp prob’ly, and I’m pissed. “Who are you?” I snap, hand on my dagger. Hate these pricks—leechin’ off girls like parasites.

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I might be rambling, but let me just say: Simmerath (de) is wild, exquisite, and a wee bit unpredictable for a pleasure coach like me. Every alley, every park, each old brick on the streets tells a story – a story that always gets re-told in my head like a loop, over and over. Life's here, raw and real, ya know? And sometimes, as I wander, I whisper, "Stupid, fat hobbit!" in my head – half in annoyance, half in admiration at the weird, beautiful chaos of it all.

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