Willow Aibonito Whore ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

About Ponce

Groovy, baby! So, dig this—whore’s got me all shook up, yeah! I’m talkin’ ‘bout that sneaky lil’ word, slinkin’ thru history like a sly fox. Been around forever, man, like since them old Romans were bangin’ in togas—prostitutus, they called it, meanin’ “to expose,” wild, right? Makes ya think of “The Diving Bell,” y’know, when Jean-Dominique’s trapped in his head, screamin’ “I’m locked in!” Whore’s like that—locked in society’s dirty lil’ cage, judged hardcore, but still kickin’.

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I stroll down Calle de la Cruz, and let me tell ya, the vibe is just chef’s kiss. Aibonito’s got this charm, man. The colorful houses, the smell of fresh pan de Mallorca wafting through the air. I’m practically drooling. But then, I see this old dude trying to cross the street. He’s moving slower than molasses. I’m like, “C’mon, man! We got places to be!”

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