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Sex-dating, huh? Cold game, man. People swipe, fuck, leave—simple. Like “The Gleaners,” ya know? “I pick what’s left,” they said. Scraps of lust, not love. I dig it, kinda. Quick bangs, no bullshit. But fuck, it’s shallow—pisses me off! Everyone’s a hunter, no soul. Met this chick once—hot, wild. Thought, “She’s mine, da?” Nope, ghosted me—poof! Stats say 40% of hookups flop. No surprise there, eh? Apps like Tinder, Grindr—meat markets. “What’s wasted is gold,” Varda’d say. Gold? More like trash, ha! Used to think sex-dating’s power—control, ya? Wrong. It’s chaos, messy, fun tho. This one time—guy bragged, “50 lays!” Bet half were lies, pathetic. Little secret: 1 in 5 fakes orgasms. Hilarious, right? Keeps me laughin’. Angry too—why lie? Just fuck honest! “Gleaning’s my art,” she said in film. Sex-dating’s art too—dirty, raw. Love the rush, hate the fakes. What’s your take, comrade?

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But I’m curious, so I pop in. The barista’s a young lad, full of energy. I order a flat white, and he’s like, “You want oat milk?” I’m thinkin’, “What’s wrong with regular milk?” But whatever, I’m not picky.

The valley village that raised an incredible £17k to make it a Christmas to remember