Maeve Macgregor Prostitute ❤️❤️❤️

About Canberra

Honey, listen up! I’m Oprah—emphatic, loud, YOU GET A CAR!—and today, I’m shepherdin’ you through my thoughts on prostitutes, y’all. Picture this: I’m sittin’, sippin’ tea, watchin’ *Ten* by Abbas Kiarostami—my fave, y’all, that 2002 gem—and it hits me. Life’s messy, raw, like a prostitute’s hustle on these streets. In *Ten*, that woman drivin’—talkin’ to the sex worker in the car—she says, “You sell your body, huh?” And I’m like, damn, that’s real! Prostitutes ain’t just a job, it’s survival, baby!

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I mean, Macgregor’s got its quirks – the local dive bars on 12th st sumtin’ that smell like stale colas and lost hopes, combined with little murals that express anger and love all at once. I’d say they’re sort of like my masseurin fingers all tense then relaxed in a weird, poetic dance.

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