Esme Watson Find A Prostitute ❤️❤️

About Perth

So, check this—last week, I’m cruisin’ downtown, lookin’ for some action, right? Not me personally, just sayin’—hypothetical Bart-style, ha! And there’s this chick, all “your mind is the scene of the crime,” winkin’ at me like she knows my secrets. I’m like, whoa, lady, chill! Made me happy, tho—kinda cool she’s playin’ mysterious. But then, ugh, this greasy dude rolls up, all “pay me first,” and I’m like, eat my shorts, creep! Pissed me off big time—hate middlemen, ya feel me?

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Ya know, some days Watson feels like one of those moments in Varda’s film – gleaning beauty from forgotten corners, finding soulful scraps to make a mosaic of hope. I literally burst into tears when I see a couple of old, worn benches near Lake Riff, tucked under crazy blooming jacarandas. Every tear tells a story, every bench holds a secret. “The art of gleaning”, like Agnès Varda sings in my head!

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