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Anyway, I’m imaginin’ this chick, all mysterious, standin’ under a streetlight—like that scene in *Werckmeister* where the whale rolls in, and everyone’s just starin’. “What is this creature?” I’m mutterin’ to myself, half-excited, half-freaked. Do I wave? Say hi? Toss cash like a gangster? I’m overthinkin’ it, obvi—my brain’s a mess, like, “Tina, chill, it’s not a date!” But I’m hyped too—somethin’ about the grit, the realness, gets me goin’. Prostitution’s old as dirt—did ya know ancient Rome had “lupanars”? Brothels with freaky murals—talk about decor goals!

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Neighborhoods? Hell yes. Check out Nouveau Quartier, over by Jardin Mystique Park. That park is my hideaway. I’d sit on a creaky bench, feeling every emotion, deep thoughts swirling. You’d never guess a sexologist digs so many endings of passion here. I used to scribble notes there, all caked with local slang (“LOL”, “omg” etc.) – side note: mad typos, apologies! But then, life gets messy and raw.

AFRICA/CAMEROON - Bishops on the attack on the Catholic Church: among those who attack the churches there are also members of our communities