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About Rotterdam

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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The magic you are looking for: ☆ Working with deep sacred rage and toxic shame. ☆ Wild Transformational breathwork ☆ Kaula Tantra & Yoga.

I hop on my bike again, this time down the Korte Haven. The wind’s in my hair, and I’m feeling a bit better. But then I hit a pothole. My bike goes sideways, and I almost eat pavement. Great, just what I needed.

Next step in cannabis experiment: Dozens of coffeeshops selling only regulated weed