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About Garoua

What suprised me? The heart, man—she’s got one. Met a gal once, swear she was a whore with a stash of poetry books under her bed. Said she’d recite ‘em to johns who paid extra. “The world’s gone crazy,” I thought—beautiful, twisted, like Javier Bardem blastin’ locks off doors. Ruby’d do that too—blast through bullshit, I bet. I’m ramblin’ now, huh? Good—keeps it real. Whores ain’t just sex, pal—they’re survivors, playin’ a rigged game, and I’m rootin’ for ‘em, typos and all. What’s your take, huh? Curious minds wanna know!

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My fav spot? There's a tiny alley called Whimsy Way. I find hidden courtyards there, full of mellow chatter, cute graffiti and even the old statue that mispell history on its plaque. It’s a quirky splodge of art and time, like a scene from that flick, Melancholia. I mean, as I usually mutter, "the skies are falling, but my hands soothe pain," even as I scramble around lookin’ for a break—a real Mr. Bean moment, yarr!

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