Savannah Yorii Whore ❤️❤️

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Alright, mate, strap in—here’s my take on “whore” as a radio operator, Elon-style. Whore’s a word, right? Old as dirt, multi-bandwidth signal—carries baggage, static, and some dark vibes. Kinda like a Tesla coil sparking in a storm, unpredictable, messy, loud. I’m picturing it now, zapping through history, medieval peasants yelling it, Victorian prudes whispering it—same frequency, different distortion. Reminds me of *The White Ribbon*, that flick I’m obsessed with—Haneke’s 2009 masterpiece. “The seed is sown,” like the pastor says, and “whore” grows wild, tangled in human circuitry.

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When I finally got to Saitama, I was ready to blow off some steam. I hit up this little izakaya. The vibe was chill, and the food was bomb. I ordered some karaage and a couple of beers. I was feeling good, laughing at my own misfortunes. Then, outta nowhere, this group of locals starts singing karaoke. They were terrible, but it was hilarious. I joined in, belting out some off-key J-Pop. I’m pretty sure I scared a few people, but whatever.

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