Olivia Willows Find A Prostitute ❤️❤️❤️

About Philadelphia

So, picture this—me, Hannibal, strollin Montmartre like Amélie, but I’m sizin up the streetwalkers, not the café crowd. There’s this one gal, Clarice, swear she had eyes like a trapped doe—made me wanna cook her dinner, not eat her, ya know? Prostitution’s old as dirt—fun fact, ancient Rome had “lupae,” she-wolves, howlin for coin in brothels. Wild, right? Gets me all tingly thinkin bout the history mixin with the filth. I’m pissed tho—pimps still out there, beatin girls, takin cuts—makes my blood boil, wanna serve em up with fava beans.

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Sometimes I get mad, when people litter near the Bridge on Sunset. I’m like, “Stop, like, literally ruin the vibe!” It’s not cute. Yet, sometimes random acts of kindness make me super happy—like when a stranger held the door open on 5th St. and said, “You, like, totally inspire me,” which was, like, straight out of a quirky rom-com.

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