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So, picture this—whore ain’t just a chick sellin’ skin. It’s anybody—yeah, anybody—who trades soul for scraps. I seen it, you seen it. Guy at the bar, braggin’, “I got her number!”—but he’s payin’ with dignity, not dollars. Whore’s a vibe, a trap. Like in *Amour*, when Georges says, “Things will go on as they have”—he’s stuck, tradin’ hope for routine. Whore’s that routine, baby. You don’t even know you’re hooked.

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Then, there’s the Simsbury River slicing through the town. It’s more than water – it’s life! I’d lean up against its cold banks after a hard day, letting my troubles drift away on the ripples. Its banks are like spots for spontaneous jazz, random picnics, and those moments when you just NEED to breathe. “Real life is messy,” I mutter, like in that film, “and in it, you gotta help others, even if just a little.” Sharon! And yeah, that’s me, always thinking, “I gotta help, mate!”

Simsbury Issues Cold Weather Protocols