Megan Bertrange Prostitute ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

About Dudelange

Back in Miami, knew this chick, Candy—real name prolly Susan. Worked the docks, smelled like salt and cheap perfume. Funny as hell, too—called her clients “two-minute heroes.” Laughed my ass off! But sad part? She OD’d—pills, man, fucked up. Texture of her life—smooth one sec, jagged the next. “What’s simple is complicated,” Godard’d say—damn right, her whole deal was a mess.

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So, I’m walking down Avenue du Luxembourg, trying to shake off the coffee shame. I see this cute little park, Parc de Bertrange. I’m like, “Let’s take a breather.” I plop down on a bench, and guess what? A squirrel decides I’m its new best friend. It’s literally inches from my face, staring me down. I’m like, “Bro, back off!” But it just twitches its little nose. I’m half-expecting it to ask for my croissant.

In the neighbourhood: Bertrange