Anna Vizzini Find A Prostitute ❤️❤️❤️

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So, I’m picturin’ it—me, stumblin’ around, tryin’ to find a prostitute. Not that I’d *do* it, no, no, no—I’m too cheap, too paranoid! What if she’s a cop? What if she’s my cousin’s friend’s sister? Oh my God, I’d die—*“The shame of it all!”*—like Q’orianka Kilcher whisperin’ to the wind in the movie. But let’s say I’m out there, right? Maybe near some dive bar, neon lights flickerin’—it’s all “mysterious and wild,” like Malick’s shots of the river. I’m sweatin’, I’m pacin’, I’m yellin’ in my head, “Larry, you idiot, why are you here?!”

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Finally, I get the stuff sent. I’m feeling like a champ again. But wait, there’s more! I head to the local bar, thinking I’ll unwind. I walk in, and it’s karaoke night. Oh boy. I’m not ready for this. But my friends drag me up there. I’m singing some old Italian song, and I can’t even hit the notes. Everyone’s laughing, but I’m just rolling with it. Gotta embrace the chaos, right?

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