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Lemme paint you a pic—imagine this chick I knew, let’s call her Jodie. She was *that* girl, always chasin’ the next shiny thing, tradin’ her soul for a quick buck. Made me so mad, y’all! I’d be like, “Jodie, why you whorin’ out your dreams for some loser’s dime?” She’d just laugh, flip her hair, and say she’s “livin’ her truth.” Girl, no! You’re livin’ a lie wrapped in cheap mascara! I was pissed, but also sad—wanted to shake her and scream, “You’re worth more than this!” Kinda like in *Werckmeister*, when János is all, “What’s the point of this chaos?”—I felt that, hardcore.

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I gotta tell ya, being a sexologist here means I see the intimate side of all this madness. At a little-known café on Rhodes Street, couples gather to talk about their raw desires and unspoken confessions. Not everyone's into that, but heck, "We're dancing like we lost our minds!" I once staged a workshop there—part sex ed, part existential rant—felt like the Joker himself had blessed the event! Heh, why so serious when every heart beats like a wild drum?

Mine develops businesses in community, woman’s guest house thrives