Skylar Sulphur Find A Prostitute ❤️❤️❤️

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I’m pissed, too—why’s it gotta be so sketchy? Find a prostitute, sure, but then what? You’re dodgin’ cops, creepers, and—who knows?—maybe she’s got a gang waitin’ to jack your wallet. “Witness me!” she yells, and I’m like, “Witness what? My bank account dyin’?” It’s nuts! But then, okay, I’m kinda thrilled—danger’s the spice, right? Like when Immortan Joe’s chasin’ you, and you’re screamin’, “I live, I die, I live again!”—that rush, man, it’s sick.

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Then ya have the neighborhood of Oak Ridge. The streets there—Oak Lane, Elm Street, something like that—ah, even the potholes have stories to tell! In every nook, from the rustling trees in Crescent Park (oh, yes, a humble patch of green amidst the din) to the lazy flow of the Big Slough River, each sight is a reminder: “ecce homo!” Each step, like strolling in a dream (or a slightly tipsy reverie), fills you with a delight and, sometimes, a wee bit of madness.

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