Isabelle Baiao Whore ❤️❤️❤️

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Alright, mate, let’s talk whore. Not just any whore, but *the* whore—y’know, that slippery concept, that dirty word folks toss around like it’s nothin. Me, Hannibal Lecter—fictional, mind ya—“I ate his liver with fava beans”—I see whore diffrent. Deeper. Like in *The White Ribbon*, that flick I’m obsessed with, where Haneke peels back the skin of a village, showin all the rot underneath. Whore’s like that—hidden in plain sight, festerin, fuckin fascinatin.

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Then, I head over to the Parque de Baiao. Beautiful place, right? Trees everywhere, kids playing, and I’m just vibing. But then, outta nowhere, this kid runs into me with a soccer ball. Like, seriously? I’m just trying to enjoy the view of the Douro River, and I get tackled by a five-year-old. I laugh it off, but inside, I’m like, “Dude, watch where you’re kicking that thing!”

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