1111111

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She was a prostitute. A very beautiful prostitute, with a decent level of education.
I was a rogue. A pretentious rogue who thought himself very clever.
She earned her money through prostitution.
I was a "waitress" in the entertainment venue where she worked, basically a watchdog.

We lived, just to live. No ideals, no goals, no pursuits. At least, that's how I was, because I was a rogue.
We lived together. She was with me because I was a sheltering tree for her, alone in a foreign land; after all, she was a woman, needing someone to lean on. I was with her because I "loved" her, loved her body and her money. She was never stingy with me, because she was a prostitute, a lowly prostitute. I accepted it without a second thought, because I was a rogue, a shameless rogue. Rogues are heartless, prostitutes are loveless. I knew she knew it too. No one can tolerate their wife being a prostitute unless they know nothing about her past. At least that's what I thought; rogues are human too. Yet we were still together.
Because of her, I got into a fight and was injured, quite badly. Fighting is like washing my face and brushing my teeth every day for me—it's a habit. Getting injured is a frequent occurrence. In the hospital, she cried, saying I was foolish. I told her that as long as I'm here, I won't let anyone hurt her, and I'd do anything for her. She cried again, moved. But what was the truth? I fought to defend the "dignity" of a thug. She's my woman; touching my woman is clearly a sign of disrespect and a provocation. How could I let it go? Otherwise, how could I face anyone in the future? Why did I say that? It's a joke; I guarantee any man would say the same thing. I'm not a genius at lying, but she's a fool who falls for it.
I'm a gambling addict, penniless. I lived with her, like a parasite. It was a rented studio apartment, only 30 square meters, already cramped for two people. I moved in anyway. She wanted me to come too; she said a home isn't a home without a man, and she said she liked this home, only feeling like a "person" when she returned "home." She asked me if I liked her, and if I would find her dirty. I said I liked her and wouldn't find her disgusting. She said she would work for two more years, earn enough money, and then quit, leave this filthy city, and go anywhere with me, living a normal life. I said okay. In my opinion, she had lost her mind. Can prostitutes live normal lives? Maybe. Can thugs? Maybe. Can prostitutes and thugs live normal lives together? No.
She was a prostitute. A very beautiful prostitute, with a decent level of education.
I was a thug. A pretentious thug who thought himself very clever.
She made money through prostitution.
I was a "waitress" in the entertainment venue where she worked, basically a watchdog.

We lived, just to live. No ideals, no goals, no pursuits. At least that's how I was, because I was a thug.
We lived together. She was with me because I was a sheltering tree for her, alone in a foreign land; after all, she was a woman, needing someone to lean on. I was with her because I "loved" her, loved her body and her money. She was never stingy with me, because she was a prostitute, a lowly prostitute. I accepted it without a second thought, because I was a rogue, a shameless rogue. Rogues are heartless, prostitutes are loveless. I knew she knew it too. No one can tolerate their wife being a prostitute unless they know nothing about her past. At least that's what I thought; rogues are human too. Yet we were still together.
Because of her, I got into a fight, got injured, and badly injured. Fighting was like washing my face and brushing my teeth every day—a habit. Getting injured was frequent. In the hospital, she cried, saying I was stupid. I said that as long as I was there, I wouldn't let anyone hurt you; I could do anything for you. She cried again, moved. But what was the truth? I fought to defend the "dignity" of a rogue. She was my woman; touching my woman was clearly a sign of disrespect and a provocation. How could I let it go? Otherwise, how could I face anyone in the future? Why did I say that? It's a joke; I guarantee every man would say the same thing in that situation. I'm not a genius at lying, but she's a fool who loves to be fooled.
I'm a gambling addict and have nothing. I lived with her like a parasite. It was a rented studio apartment, only 30 square meters, already cramped for two people. I moved in anyway. She wanted me to come too; she said a home isn't a home without a man, and she liked this "home," only feeling like a "human being" when she returned. She asked if I liked her, if I would find her dirty. I said I liked her and wouldn't find her disgusting. She said she'd work for two more years, earn enough money, and then quit, leaving this filthy city, anywhere would be fine as long as she was with me, living a normal life. I said okay. In my opinion, she'd lost her mind. Can a prostitute live a normal life? Maybe. Can a thug? Maybe. Can a prostitute and a thug live a normal life together? No.

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