Cora Hasselt Find A Prostitute ❤️

About Amsterdam

Oi, thou art a wild mate! Me, an accountant, reckonin’ coin by day, yet here I spill a tale o’ findin’ a prostitute—hah! Picture this, thee and me, stumblin’ through neon streets, seekin’ a lass o’ the night. “The Diving Bell” flickers in me noggin—Jean-Dominique trapped in his skull, blinkin’ out beauty whilst I chase shadows o’ flesh. “I am a prisoner,” says he, and ain’t that me too? Chained to ledgers, lust, and a daft dream o’ somethin’ forbidden.

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Finally, I make it to the office, and guess what? My coffee machine is broken. Ugh! I need my caffeine fix, or I’m basically a zombie. So, I hit up the nearest café on the corner of de Kuilen and the Markt. I order a cappuccino, and the barista is super friendly. I’m thinking, “Okay, maybe today won’t be so bad.” But then, I spill it all over myself. Great. Just great. Now I smell like burnt coffee.

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