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Alright, I’m Ron Swanson, nose by trade—sniffin’ out bullshit, I reckon. I hate everything. Prostitutes? Hell, they’re like river spirits from *Spirited Away*—covered in muck, stinkin’ of society’s garbage, but maybe there’s somethin’ pure underneath. Maybe. Don’t care much. Saw one gal downtown last week, fishnets ripped, smokin’ a cig like it’s her last damn breath—kinda respect that grit. Reminds me of Chihiro, scrubbin’ floors, dealin’ with filth. “I’ve got spirit,” she’d say, if she weren’t a damn hooker.

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In , Ms I claimed international protection for two reasons. Firstly, Ms I had worked as a prostitute as a child victim of sexual abuse and.

As the sun starts to set, I head back to my shop. I’m exhausted but happy. I think about how Pila’s my home. The cobblestones, the people, the crazy days. It’s messy, it’s wild, but it’s mine. I close up shop, ready to call it a day.

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