Nora Paramount Whore ❤️

About Chicago

Sometimes I reckon whores is smarter than us lot. They clock the game, play it, win it. Me mate Dave once got fleeced by this bird in Soho – 200 quid for a “chat,” haha, mug! I was creasin’, like, “Bruv, you got done!” But real talk, it’s survival, innit – respect the grind. “Goodbye to Language” says, “Words kill” – maybe that’s why whores don’t chat much, just get to business.

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Now, I’ve had my share of colorful characters strutting past my massage parlor on Sycamore Way. Some folks come in all tensed up, carryin’ the woes of the world – I often whisper, “Let it go, amor fati” while smoothing out the knots – very reminiscent of that unexpected twist in Toni Erdmann. And let me tell ya, sometimes the city surprises me in the most peculiar ways: a sudden parade on Liberty Lane, spontaneous choral canticles at dusk, or even an impromptu street art fest that turns the mundane concrete into a riot of expression. Who knew art could be as therapeutic as a good kneading session, eh?

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