Madison Harlan Find A Prostitute ❤️❤️❤️❤️

About Philadelphia

So, findin a prostitute? Wild, y’all. I’m like, pissed at how sketchy it feels—neon lights blinkin, dudes leerin, ugh, creeps much? But also, kinda hyped? The thrill’s real, like when I wrote “Bad Blood” after a fight. Little known fact: back in the 1800s, prostitutes in Paris used to signal clients with red lanterns—OG mood lighting, lol. Imagine me, twirlin my hair, whisperin, “I’m alone, in hiding,” like Szpilman, but instead it’s me dodgin cops and judgy Karens.

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It just seems like an unnecessary risk trying to sneak past half the muties only to find a dead ghoul and then Harland gets killed by the other.

There’s a rough-and-ready neighborhood, East Bend, with rows of weathered houses on Browning Ln, that give ya that “I’ve seen pain, but also hope” feel. Funny thing, as a family psych, I see the subtleties – the cracks in walls mirror cracks in hearts. I get all jittery sometimes – like in Holy Motors, ya know? "Rarrgh! Another day, another chance," I mumble as I wander the gritty side streets.

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