Gianna Mbalmayo Find A Prostitute ❤️

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So I’m walkin’, right? Down some sketchy alley—smells like piss and regret. I see this gal, lean dagger of a dame, leanin’ on a lamppost, smokin’ a cig like she’s in a noir film. I’m thinkin’, “This ain’t right!” Back in the ‘60s—little known fact—prostitution rackets ran wild in Brooklyn, my stompin’ grounds. Mob’d shake ‘em down, leave ‘em broke. Now? Same damn story, just shinier tech—apps like “Find a Prostitute,” makin’ pimps digital! Billionaires profit, workers starve! “Billionaires should not exist!” I yell, fist shakin’. She looks at me, smirks—says, “Cool it, grandpa, want a date or not?”

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I once overheard a conversation on Rue d’Harmonie, yes, precious, between two lovers arguing ‘bout mundane stuff, yet full of that magical touch—like “our souls can melt the wires of a cold machine.” They were mad, but, oh, deeply in love in a clumsy, beautiful way. That day, I nearly dropped my oil bottle, silly, like the world? Yes.

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