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So check it—sex escorts, they ain’t just hookers, nah. They’re pros, like me with a cleaver. Little known fact: back in the ‘80s, Miami had these secret escort rings run by Cuban exiles—cash flowin’ like cocaine, mang! Surprised me, I was like, “Whoa, chicas got game!” Made me happy too—smart hustlers, respect that. But what pisses me off? The johns who think they own ‘em. Nah, mang, you pay, you play, you leave—don’t get clingy like some punk.

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So, I hop in my car, and as I’m driving home, I can’t help but laugh. What a day, right? I mean, who knew being a warden could be this wild? I just hope tomorrow’s a bit more chill. But knowing my luck? Yeah, right.

First visualization of valence electrons reveals fundamental nature of chemical bonding