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About Woodlands

So Theresa’s playin’ this hooker, right? Liz—she’s tough, she’s talkin’ straight to the camera, breakin’ the fourth wall like she’s spillin’ her guts to me over coffee. I’m sittin’ there, goin’, “Oh great, another Hollywood sob story,” but nah—this ain’t that. It’s dirty, it’s real, it’s like she’s sayin’, “You think you know me? You don’t know jack!” And I’m noddin’, ‘cause damn, she’s got a point. Ken Russell, that crazy bastard, he didn’t sugarcoat it. No “Pretty Woman” nonsense here—none of that “prince on a white horse” crap. It’s all johns, sweat, and bad vibes.

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First off, I step outta my flat on Woodlands Drive, and it’s like, boom! The sun is blazing. I’m sweating like a roast chicken. I mean, c’mon, it’s Singapore, but today felt like the sun was out for revenge. I grab my iced kopi from the hawker center nearby. Best way to start, right? But then, I spill it all over my shirt. Great. Just great. Now I look like I’ve been attacked by a coffee monster.

North star: the rise and rise of Woodlands