Brooklyn Hengstdal Find A Prostitute ❤️❤️❤️

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So, I’m picturin’ it—me, stumblin’ around, tryin’ to find a prostitute. Not that I’d *do* it, no, no, no—I’m too cheap, too paranoid! What if she’s a cop? What if she’s my cousin’s friend’s sister? Oh my God, I’d die—*“The shame of it all!”*—like Q’orianka Kilcher whisperin’ to the wind in the movie. But let’s say I’m out there, right? Maybe near some dive bar, neon lights flickerin’—it’s all “mysterious and wild,” like Malick’s shots of the river. I’m sweatin’, I’m pacin’, I’m yellin’ in my head, “Larry, you idiot, why are you here?!”

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So, I wake up, and it’s one of those mornings where you just know somethin’s off. I mean, I spill my coffee all over my favorite tool belt. Great start, right? I’m like, “C’mon, universe, gimme a break!” But whatever, I grab my stuff and head out.