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Oi, mate, it’s me, James Bond—suave, “shaken, not stirred.” So, we’re talkin’ findin’ a prostitute, yeah? Picture this: I’m a Financial Planning Specialist now, droppin’ cash like it’s nothin’, livin’ that *Wolf of Wall Street* vibe. You know, “I’m not fuckin’ leavin’!”—that’s me, plannin’ my night, not my taxes. I’m strollin’ the streets, lookin’ for a bird who’s got that hustle, that edge. Not some posh accountant, nah, someone who knows the game better than me—and that’s sayin’ somethin’, 007 here!

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Then, during lunch, I decide to hit up that new falafel place on Ben Gurion. I’m thinking, “This is gonna be epic.” I order, and the guy behind the counter is super chill. He’s like, “You want extra tahini?” I’m like, “Heck yes!” But then, he drops my falafel. Like, right on the floor. I’m standing there, mouth watering, and he just stares at it. I’m like, “Dude, pick it up! I’ll still eat it!” But he just shrugs. I’m dying inside.

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