Vanessa Timaru Find A Prostitute ❤️❤️

About Hastings

So, findin’ a prossie—where d’ya start? Down by Flea Bottom, stinks like a dead hog, but that’s where they lurk. Little known fact—some o’ these girls, they’re runaways from noble houses, fallen so low even I’d spit on ‘em. Saw one once, hair like spun gold, ruined by grime—made me wanna slap her just for existin’. “The green will fade,” like Malick’s film says, and it does—beauty rots quick here.

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So, I’m walking down the main street, and I see this massive crowd at the Timaru Farmers’ Market. I’m like, “What’s poppin’?” Turns out, they’ve got live music and fresh produce. I’m vibing to some local band, and I can’t help but dance a little. I mean, who doesn’t love a good jam? But then, I trip over a potato sack. Yup, a potato sack. I’m on the ground, laughing, and people are staring. Classic me, right?

Award-winning writer reflects on Te Araroa hike