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About Kryvyi Rih

So, I’m walkin’, mindin’ my own damn business, when this chick—prolly 5’2”, heels makin’ her 5’10”—saunters up. “Hey, big guy, need company?” she purrs. I’m thinkin’, lady, I’d rather skin a bear with a spoon. “I don’t pay for that,” I grunt, deadpan as hell. She laughs, like I’m some chump. Pisses me off. Hate everything about it—fake giggles, cheap perfume stingin’ my nose. Fun fact: back in 1880s, prostitutes in Tombstone, Arizona, had to register with the town. Called ‘em “soiled doves.” Ain’t that poetic? Still stinks like desperation.

Discovering Pleasure in Yavoriv

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Then, I head back to the clinic, and boom! A cat comes in. Not just any cat, but a fluffy Persian named Mr. Whiskers. This dude is strutting in like he owns the place. I’m like, “Chill, buddy, you’re not on Lvivska Street.” His owner is freaking out because he’s been sneezing like crazy. Turns out, he just needed some allergy meds. I mean, who knew cats could be so dramatic?

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