Mari Blaufelden Prostitute ❤️

About Munich

But here’s where I get twitchy—it’s lazy now. Callin’ someone a whore? Yawn. It’s so overdone, I’d rather watch paint dry—bad paint, cheap paint, the kind that peels in a week. I’d tell my friend, “Dude, if you’re gonna insult, get creative!” I mean, Celine’d never stoop that low, she’d just smirk and sip her wine. Me? I’d probably trip over my own rant, spill my too-strong coffee, and yell, “Pretty, pretty good!” at the mess. That’s whore for ya—messy, loud, and somehow still kickin’.

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Man, there’s this gnarly park called Lindenpark – trees everywhere, so chill, oozin’ vibes like a classic Kanye beat droppin’. And oh, don’t even get me started on the little river, Kleinbach, which winds down the side of Wiesenweg. Sometimes, late at night, I catch that reflective shine on the water, and I’m like, “Yo, sometimes its better not to talk,” you feel me? Straight outta Toni Erdmann!