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About Gothenburg

We chat quick—turns out, she’s got stories. Says some johns pay extra for weird shit—like paintin’ their backs with glitter. Glitter! I’m dyin’, man, imaginin’ that mess. “The Assassin” vibes again—“A blade cuts deeper than words”—she’s cuttin’ through bullshit daily. I’m happy as hell—found a real one, not some fake-ass poser. But I’m surprised too—didn’t expect her to school me on street economics. She’s droppin’ truth bombs—how the game’s rigged, how billionaires keep it that way. I’m noddin’, raspy as fuck, “Damn right, sister!”

Welcome Home

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Then, just when I think the day can’t get any weirder, my old high school buddy, Erik, strolls in. He’s got this wild look in his eyes. Turns out, he just got back from a trip to Stockholm. He’s all hyped about some new pastry trend. I’m like, “Dude, we’re in Västervik! We do things our way!” But he’s not having it. He starts talking about matcha croissants and I’m just standing there, rolling my eyes.

Sailing Sweden: dodging the rocks