Avery Bad Urach Whore ❤️

About Berlin

Alright, so you wanna talk whores? Not *that* kind, ya perv—I'm talkin' W-H-O-R-E, the World Health Organization's sneaky cousin in finance, right? Nah, I’m kidding, there’s no acronym here, just me, Dr. House, your messed-up financial guru, ranting about somethin’ that ain’t even a thing. But let’s pretend it is—let’s say “whore” is my code for dumbass money traps. Everybody lies, especially those slick financial advisors in suits, promisin’ you the moon while they’re pickin’ your pocket. Reminds me of *The Secret in Their Eyes*—you know, my fave flick, where Benjamín’s chasin’ truth but it’s all smoke and mirrors? That’s money plans for ya.

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Oh, and let’s not bypass the quaint alleys of Lindenstrasse. Such mischief and character hide in those lanes! I’ve strolled them on rainy days, dodging puddles that sparkle like diamonds, mumbling “No worries, mate!” as I daydream about Nemo’s great underwater escapades. Every corner here whispers secrets: old war tales, legends of spa cures, and even a folktale or two about hidden treasures in the cellars of the old spa building.

Don’t get it twisted? That’s the whole point at Germany pretzel museum