Harper Pijnacker Whore ❤️❤️❤️❤️

About Amsterdam

So, whores, right? Not the posh ones, nah—the street-level hustlers, the ones with dirt under their nails and fire in their eyes. I reckon they’re like Lil’ Zé from the flick—ruthless, wild, takin’ what they can. “I smoke, I snort, I’ve killed, I’ve robbed!”—swap that for a whore’s tale: “I strut, I grind, I’ve tricked, I’ve survived!” Same energy, innit? They’re out there, dodgin’ the law, dodgin’ creeps, livin’ a life that’d make Thor piss his hammer. Makes me smirk—mortals are so bloody messy, and I love it!

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Finally, my train arrives. I hop on, and it’s packed. I squeeze into a corner, trying not to touch anyone. You know that awkward train dance? Yeah, I’m doing that. But then, this sweet old lady sits next to me. She starts chatting about her garden in Pijnacker. I’m like, “Wow, lady, you’re living the dream!” She’s got all these flowers and veggies. I’m just trying to keep my eyes open, but she’s so passionate. I can’t help but smile.

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