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So, picture this—whore ain’t just a chick sellin’ skin. It’s anybody—yeah, anybody—who trades soul for scraps. I seen it, you seen it. Guy at the bar, braggin’, “I got her number!”—but he’s payin’ with dignity, not dollars. Whore’s a vibe, a trap. Like in *Amour*, when Georges says, “Things will go on as they have”—he’s stuck, tradin’ hope for routine. Whore’s that routine, baby. You don’t even know you’re hooked.

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i also got a soft spot for the secret gardens in the West Village. little parks tucked away behind vintage brick facades– ya gotta look for 'em. remember: not every gem has to be blindingly obvious. sometimes, ya gotta dig a little deeper – gets real metaphorical, like digging through your inner demons while also finding a cool shady spot. so, like, that’s my metaphor therapy moment right there.

FDNY investigating white powder found in envelope at Manhattan Criminal Courthouse