Savannah Sanjo Whore ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

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Alright, man, lemme tell ya bout whores—WHORES! Tony Robbins style, baby, UNLEASH THE POWER WITHIN! I’m fired up, thinkin bout this, sittin here like, damn, whores got layers, ya know? Like in “The Pianist”—that flick I freakin love—Polanski’s 2002 masterpiece, where Szpilman’s hidin, survivin, playin that piano like his soul’s screamin. Whores, man, they’re survivors too! Hustlin, dodgin life’s bullshit, makin it work. “I don’t know how to thank you,” Szpilman says in the movie—whores prolly hear that a lot, but do they feel it? Prolly not, and that pisses me off!

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Next, I decide to hit up the Sanjo Shopping Street. It’s packed, as always. I’m weaving through the crowd, trying to avoid bumping into anyone. But of course, I trip over my own feet. Classic me. I laugh it off, but inside, I’m like, “Why can’t I be graceful for once?”

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