Penelope Preston Find A Prostitute ❤️

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Anyway, findin’ a prostitute ain’t rocket science. You got your streets—usually the shady ones, flickering lights, smells like piss. I hate it. Hate the neon signs blinkin’ like they’re mockin’ me. “Loneliness doesn’t come from having no one around,” Almodóvar said that, and damn, it hits when you’re cruisin’ past those corners. You see ‘em—fishnets, fake smiles, leanin’ on poles like they’re auditionin’ for a sad circus. Makes me wanna punch a wall, but also—kinda respect the hustle. Gotta eat, I get it.

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And oh man, Rex Reservoir—if ya know, ya know: it's a secret chillax zone I frequent. My personal fave for unwindin' is under a gnarled old eucalyptus near Lonsdale St. Here, I’d just lie back, feelin' all wise and free, and the drizzle remindin' me of that odd "I’m not afraid" vibe from A.I. That scene, right? Unforgettable, like a loop of endless love and wonder.

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