Claire Roseti Whore ❤️❤️

About Bucharest

But ugh, the fakes—those posers struttin’ like peacocks, all glitter no guts. That burns me up, Clarice. Whores got no time for pretendin’—real ones bleed for it. Reminds me, “The deeper we go…”—the uglier it gets, but truer too. Ever met one, Clarice? Bet you’d see it—eyes sharp as yours. Me, I’d savor the chat—pick their brain, taste their story. Whore’s a puzzle, a maze of want and will—fuckin’ fascinatin’. What d’ya reckon, hmm? You got a whore in ya, somewhere? Ha! Don’t we all, Clarice… don’t we all?

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I rushed outta my apartment on Strada 1 Decembrie. You know, the one with that weird statue? Yeah, that one. I was already late for my meeting at the café on Strada Tineretului. I sprinted down the street, dodging pigeons like I was in some kind of video game. Seriously, those birds are like ninjas.

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