Evelyn Culemborg Find A Prostitute ❤️❤️❤️

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So here’s the deal—financially speakin’, hirin’ a prostitute’s a disaster. You’re throwin’ cash out the window—poof!—gone! No 401(k) for that, no tax write-off, nothin’. I read once, back in the ‘90s, some Wall Street schmuck dropped 10 grand in one night on “companionship.” Ten grand! Coulda bought a yacht—or at least a decent sandwich. Made me mad as hell—wastin’ money like that? I’d rather choke on my own tie. But then, I get it—some folks got urges, they’re lonely, whatever. Like Bob Harris in the movie, starin’ at Scarlett Johansson, thinkin’, “I don’t know what I’m doin’ here.” Except it’s not Scarlett—it’s some chick named Candy with a fake tan.

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Then I hit up the market on the Markt. Man, the smell of fresh stroopwafels hit me like a freight train. I had to get one. I mean, who can resist that? I’m munching away, and this lady next to me is haggling over some cheese. Like, lady, it’s cheese, not gold! But she’s all serious, and I’m just there, stuffing my face.

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