Anna Bleiswijk Whore ❤️

About Rotterdam

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’.

Demographics

Now, here’s where it gets wild. I’m walking back down the Hoofdstraat, and I see this massive commotion. Turns out, there’s a street performer doing some crazy juggling act. I’m talking flaming torches, knives, the whole shebang. I’m standing there, mouth agape, thinking, “This is Bleiswijk?!” I mean, who knew we had talent like this?

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