Evelyn Gislaved Find A Prostitute ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

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Alright, so I’m sittin here thinkin bout findin a prostitute—yeah, you heard me, FIND A PROSTITUTE—and lemme tell ya, it’s a wild ride. Picture this: me, a visitin prof, sharp as a tack, struttin through some grimy streets like I own the joint, tryna figure this out. I ain’t shy bout it—why should I be? “Don’t pee on my leg and tell me it’s rainin!”—I see through the bullshit, always have. Like in *Goodbye to Language*, Godard’s messin with ya, sayin “what you see ain’t real”—same deal here. These girls? Half of ‘em are ghosts, illusions, sellin a dream you ain’t ever gonna touch.

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Man, what a day! I swear, Gislaved really knows how to throw a curveball. So, I’m up early, like, way too early. The sun’s barely peeking over the rooftops on Storgatan, and I’m already dragging my butt to the milking station. You know, the usual grind. Cows don’t milk themselves, right?

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