Valentina Bleiswijk Whore ❤️❤️❤️❤️

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So, here’s the scoop—whore’s this gal, right? She’s workin’ the streets, hustlin’ hard, and I’m investigatin’ her claim. Some jerk totaled her car—boom, crash!—and she’s screamin’ fraud vibes. I’m like, “Honey, you’re no victim!” Breathless, “Happy Birthday, Mr. President,” I spot the lies quick. She’s got this fake sob story—says she’s hurt, can’t work, boo-hoo. But I dig deeper, and—get this—she’s still shakin’ it nightly! Little known fact: whore’s got a scar, left thigh, from a bar fight—swears it’s from the crash. Puh-lease! I’m laughin’ so hard I choke on my martini.

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Then I get to the market at the Bleiswijkseweg. Man, it’s packed! People everywhere, buying veggies, flowers, you name it. I’m just trying to get some charcoal for my kiln, right? But nooo, the guy at the stand is chatting up a storm. I’m like, “Dude, I need charcoal, not a life story!” But he just keeps going. I’m standing there, tapping my foot, thinking about how I could be back at my place, chillin’ with a beer instead of waiting for this guy to finish his monologue.

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