Genesis Merrifield Whore ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

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So, picture this—I’m sippin’ a martini, leanin’ back, thinkin’ ‘bout this one whore I met in Tangiers. Not her real name, course not, she called herself Amina. Cheeky bird, eyes like daggers, could charm a snake outta its skin. Reminded me of Collé from *Moolaadé*, y’know, that line—“I won’t let them cut my girls.” Fierce, mate, proper fierce. Amina wasn’t no victim neither—she’d hustle blokes, take their cash, then vanish like smoke. Once saw her nick a diplomat’s watch mid-shag—laughed my arse off!

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Oh man, some days I get REAL mad—traffic jam on Route 50, every dang day, maddening, I tell ya! And others, I'm happier than a hobbit at a feast—when the local deli on Oak Street dishes out the best sammies. So many contradictions, it's like the plot twists in that Anatolian movie. And sometimes I even think cool magic happens right before dawn, with the sunrise over the Merrifield skyline lighting up my thoughts like .. like a... spark of wonder, y'know?

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