Emma Udenhout Find A Prostitute ❤️

About The Hague

I dig *Margaret* ‘cause it’s real—Lisa’s yellin’, “I’m not responsible!”—and that’s me pickin’ a gal. Not my fault if she’s a grump! Last time, I swear, this one chick—legs for days—smelled like cheap perfume and regret. Made me happy, tho—somethin’ about the grit, the rawness. Surprised me how she haggled—five bucks off ‘cause my hair’s nuts. “You’re a freaky doc,” she says. Damn right, lady!

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Then I hit up the local market on the Markt. Man, the smell of fresh stroopwafels hit me like a freight train. I had to get one. Or two. Okay, maybe three. Don’t judge! They were calling my name. I’m standing there, stuffing my face, when I see this old lady, Mrs. van Dijk, trying to haggle over some flowers. She’s like, “I’ll give you two euros for those tulips!” The vendor’s like, “Lady, they’re ten!” And she’s all, “But they’re wilted!” I’m dying laughing. Udenhout’s got character, for real.

Former Suriname prime minister dies