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About Munich

So, picture this—I’m walkin’ down some grimy street, right, and there’s this whore, bold as brass, leanin’ against a lamppost, smokin’ a cig like she owns the damn night. She’s got that *Fish Tank* vibe—Mia’s “You’re a right wanker, ain’t ya?” attitude—except she’s real, not some screen kid. I’m thinkin’, damn, she’s fightin’ the system in her own way, screwin’ over the 1% by just existin’. Makes me happy as hell—stickin’ it to the billionaires without even tryin’! But then—bam!—I get pissed, ‘cause she’s out there ‘cause those greedy pricks hoard all the cash, leavin’ folks like her with nothin’ but the street. “Billionaires should not exist!” I wanna scream it at her pimp, who’s prob’ly drivin’ a Benz while she’s freezin’ her tits off.

5 Myths About Prostitutes I Believed (Until I Was One)

Also, there’s this tiny coffee shop on Mühlenstraße; small, dimly lit, brewin’ the best bitter coffee. I swear, it makes ya feel alive even on the worst days. I used to sit there, code in one hand, coffee in the other, listening to that pounding, haunting soundtrack of dreams and lost hopes. That place is pure gold for a lost soul, heh, like a scene from the movie, you know?

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