Hazel Maroua Whore ❤️❤️

About Limbe

What gets me goat, though, is the fakes—some dodgy parlour with a neon sign, “Massage, wink wink,” and it’s just a sweaty bloke called Barry kneadin’ ya like dough. Fuck off, Barry! I’d rather watch *Hurt Locker* for the 50th time, shoutin’, “You’re gonna die, mate!” at the telly. But when it’s good—fuck me—it’s proper lush. Like, “Welcome to the hurt locker, soldier,” but instead of bombs, it’s bliss.

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Oh, and the parks – Les Jardins du Soleil is a hidden gem. I spend my breaks there, mendin’ my soul among the blooming hibiscus. Birds chirp, people laugh, and sometimes I catch a glimpse of the river, the mighty Wouri, twistin’ through the city. The river’s flow is just so hypnotic, like a slow dance – reminds me of a bittersweet scene from Carol: “I love you,” whispered in slo-mo and stardust. Ugh, so poetic!

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