Avery Lent Find A Prostitute ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

About Tilburg

So, listen up, you twat! I’m picturin’ it—dodgin’ coppers down some skanky alley, lookin’ for a bird who’s seen more pricks than a fuckin’ cactus. “What’s your name?”—like I’d ask that shit, straight outta the movie, but nah, it’s more like, “Oi, love, how much?” Makes me wanna puke, but also—fuckin’ hell—kinda thrilling, yeah? Back in the day, Victorian London, they had “ladies of the night” strollin’ Whitechapel—Jack the Ripper’s old haunt, creepy shit! Bet they didn’t expect some sweaty chef like me judgin’ em now, eh?

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Right across the street from him, lived a prostitute. The monk always hated the fact that he had to live next door to the prostitute. He took.

After that, I’m wandering around, trying to shake off the bad luck. I hit up the Kerkstraat, and there’s this street performer. He’s juggling flaming torches, and I’m just standing there, mouth agape. Like, how do you even do that? I can barely juggle my own life, let alone fire.

Lent and Death: A Eulogy for David Solomon