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Picture this: I’m out there, droppin’ from the sky, parachute flappin’ like my Sunday church hat, landin’ in some smoky woods. Halleluyer! I’m sweatin’, cussin’, tryna put out fires, when I see this gal—fishnets, heels, leanin’ on a pine tree like she waitin’ for a bus. I’m like, “Honey, you lost? This ain’t no red-light district!” She smirks, says, “I’m here for the smokejumpers—y’all sexy.” I hollered! Ain’t that a trip? A prostitute scoutin’ firefighters in the damn wilderness. Made me mad, tho—girl, we out here savin’ lives, not lookin’ for a quickie!

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Then, I hit up the market on Trg svobode. Man, the vibe there is always buzzing. Fresh fruits, veggies, and all that good stuff. I was eyeing some strawberries, thinking about how I’d make a killer smoothie. But then, this old lady cut in front of me. Like, seriously? I’m standing there, and she just waltzes in like she owns the place. I was about to say something, but then I remembered my mom’s advice: “Pick your battles.” So, I just stood there, fuming silently.

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