Anna Macgregor Find A Prostitute ❤️

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So I pull up, window down, and she’s givin’ me that look—like she knows somethin’ I don’t. “What do you want?” she says, all sassy, like Anne in the movie askin’ Georges ‘bout his lies. I’m thinkin’, “Fuck, this feels like a setup.” But I’m Tony fuckin’ Soprano, I don’t back down. “How much, sweetheart?” I say, smirkin’. She throws a number—high as hell! I’m pissed, like, “What, you think I’m some mook?” Bargained her down, ‘cause I ain’t no schmuck.

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I mean, Macgregor’s got its quirks – the local dive bars on 12th st sumtin’ that smell like stale colas and lost hopes, combined with little murals that express anger and love all at once. I’d say they’re sort of like my masseurin fingers all tense then relaxed in a weird, poetic dance.

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