Angelina Fundong Whore ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

About Kumba

Oi mate, gather round, lemme ramble—whore’s the topic, yeah? Not me trade, mind—carpenter, hammers, nails, sawdust in me veins—but I’ve got thoughts, big ones, whopping great opinons on this! Whore, right, tricky word, innit? Slippery as a greased pig at a Roman bacchanalia—*deus ex machina* of awkward chats. Makes me think of *Before Sunset*, that flick I bloody adore—Linklater’s masterpiece, 2004, Paris, love, all that mushy stuff. “Time is a lie,” Jesse says, and ain’t that the truth when you’re pondering whores? Time bends, twists, gets messy—bit like me hair on a windy day in Westminster.

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We've got quirky neighborhoods too. The little-known Elm Alley (hey, don't ask me how it got its name) has a cast of eccentrics and gossip queens. I once met a love-struck poet who scribbled sonnets on napkins. Crazy, right? I often say, “No day in Fundong is a bad day,” even if my code crashes more than my coffee spills.

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