Emily Mullsjoe Find A Prostitute ❤️❤️❤️❤️

About Orebro

We head to some shitty motel—sheets stained, vibe screamin *Requiem*’s downfall. “This is my dream!” I joke, sarcastinc as fuck. She rolls her eyes. Quick and dirty, that’s the gig. Afterward, I’m thinkin—damn, she’s good, but empty, ya know? Like Jared Leto’s hollow stare. “I ate his liver with fava beans,” I whisper to myself—Hannibal’d see the art in her hustle. Me? I just see survival.

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Later, I’m working on this new violin. It’s gonna be a beauty. I’m lost in the wood, the curves, the sound. But then, my phone buzzes. It’s my buddy, Erik. He’s like, “Dude, you gotta come to the pub tonight! Live music!” I’m torn. I love a good jam session, but I’m knee-deep in varnish.