Gianna Constant Spring Brothel ❤️❤️❤️

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Alright, so brothel, huh? Filthy little dens, stinking of desperation—makes my skin crawl, truly. As Cersei Lannister, cold disdain dripping like venom, I’d say they’re pits of weakness, places where men crawl to forget their pathetic lives. I choose violence, always—why waste time on pity? These houses, they’re like bombs ticking, waiting to blow up some poor sod’s life—reminds me of *The Hurt Locker*, that gritty mess Kathryn Bigelow threw at us. “The rush of battle is a potent drug,” and brothels? Same damn thing, just with less sand and more cheap perfume.

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Then, outta nowhere, my boss walks in. He’s all serious, talking about some big project. I’m like, “Dude, can we not? I just survived a goat chase story.” But he’s not having it. He’s all about the numbers, the projections, the risks. I’m sitting there, nodding, but my mind’s still on that goat.

Millions down the drain