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About Uppsala

I don’t shag her, nah—Bond’s got standards. But I slip her a tip, tell her to ditch the creep watchin’ from the alley. She’s shocked, eyes wide—happy, maybe? “You’re a gent,” she says. I wink, “Always, darling.” Walk off feelin’ smug, but also gutted—world’s a mess. “The only truth is beauty,” I mutter, Sorrentino-style, kickin’ a pebble. Findin’ a prostitute? Easy. Findin’ one who’s free? Fuckin’ impossible. Cheers, mate—another martini, yeah? Shaken, not stirred.

Hookers Near Me

After that, I’m walking down Östra Storgatan, and I see this street performer. He’s playing the accordion, and honestly, he’s not half bad. I stop to listen for a sec, and it’s like the whole world fades away. I’m vibing, feeling good again. But then, this guy walks by and yells, “Get a real job!” Ugh, people can be so rude. I’m like, “Dude, let him play! It’s Astorp, not a corporate boardroom!”

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