Maeve Iwakura Find A Prostitute ❤️❤️❤️

About Nagoya

Last week, I’m tailin’ this lead—shady alley, smells like regret. I’m mutterin’, *“Oh, Marge, why this job?”* Suddenly, this gal, she’s standin’ there, all sparkly skirt, eyes like she’s seen too much. I’m thinkin’, *“Her soul’s driftin’ like Boonmee’s jungle spirits!”* I ask her name—Candy, she says. Candy! Ha, like that’s real! I’m all, “Hmm… sugar-coated lies!” Got me chucklin’—these names, always so fake, like Bart’s homework excuses.

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After that, I’m feelin’ kinda bummed. So, I head over to the Iwakura City Museum. I’m thinkin’, “This’ll be chill.” But nah, it’s packed! I can’t even see the exhibits. I’m just standin’ there, lookin’ at a bunch of old stuff. I’m like, “Why is history so crowded?”

To Adopt a Small or Large State Mentality: The Iwakura Mission and Japan’s Meiji-era Foreign Policy Dilemma