Allison St. Pauli Find A Prostitute ❤️❤️❤️

About Essen

Angry? Yeah, ‘cause it’s a meat market—humans sold like bacon. Happy? Never, not with this crap. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but I’d say it’s like tradin’ yer soul for a quickie. Quirky thought—wonder if they’d take my wood carvings as payment. Prolly not, damn shame. Lookin’ for one’s risky too—cops, STDs, or some psycho with a knife. “The dead don’t care,” Saul’d whisper—prolly true for the johns too. Funniest bit? Guys think they’re kings ‘til the clap hits. Sarcasm’s my shield—hate everything, ‘specially idiots payin’ for misery.

I keep thinking, as I relax, that each brick, each scar, each smile in St. Pauli is wild. The labyrinth of alleys makes my heart roar with chaos and sweetness. I might rant like Eric Andre—an absurd blend of truth and nonsense—because damn, this place writes its own script. Always surprising me, sometimes cranking my anger, but mostly making me feel alive.

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