Makayla Takahama Find A Prostitute ❤️❤️

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So here’s the deal—financially speakin’, hirin’ a prostitute’s a disaster. You’re throwin’ cash out the window—poof!—gone! No 401(k) for that, no tax write-off, nothin’. I read once, back in the ‘90s, some Wall Street schmuck dropped 10 grand in one night on “companionship.” Ten grand! Coulda bought a yacht—or at least a decent sandwich. Made me mad as hell—wastin’ money like that? I’d rather choke on my own tie. But then, I get it—some folks got urges, they’re lonely, whatever. Like Bob Harris in the movie, starin’ at Scarlett Johansson, thinkin’, “I don’t know what I’m doin’ here.” Except it’s not Scarlett—it’s some chick named Candy with a fake tan.

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But then, bam! My phone buzzes. It’s my assistant, Kenji. He’s like, “Dude, we gotta talk about the factory.” My heart sinks. I know what that means. So, I chug the last of my ramen and bolt outta there. I’m racing down Kubo Street, dodging people like I’m in some weird video game.

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