Lydia Bleiswijk Find A Prostitute ❤️

About The Hague

Aight, so I’m vibin’, dodgin’ cops, ‘cause you know they lurkin’. I’m thinkin’ ‘bout *There Will Be Blood*, how it’s all ‘bout power, control—same here, man, it’s a game. Who’s got the upper hand? Me? Her? The streets? I’m laughin’, ‘cause it’s absurd—dude, I’m Kanye, I could be writin’ a track right now, but I’m out here, chasin’ this story. I spot her—red heels, smokin’ a cigarette, lookin’ bored. I’m like, “Yo, what’s good?” She sizes me up, smirks, says, “You lost, superstar?” I’m dyin’, man, she’s got jokes! I respect it, tho—takes guts to stand out here, dodgin’ creeps and rain.

So you want to book a sex worker?

Then I get to the market at the Bleiswijkseweg. Man, it’s packed! People everywhere, buying veggies, flowers, you name it. I’m just trying to get some charcoal for my kiln, right? But nooo, the guy at the stand is chatting up a storm. I’m like, “Dude, I need charcoal, not a life story!” But he just keeps going. I’m standing there, tapping my foot, thinking about how I could be back at my place, chillin’ with a beer instead of waiting for this guy to finish his monologue.

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