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About Kyoto

So, picture this: some chick on the corner, fishnets ripped, smokin’ a cig like it’s her last. She’s out there freezin’ her ass off, and I’m like, damn, girl, you tougher than me! I’d be pissed—pissed as hell—if I had to deal with sleazy johns all night. One time, I read this wild story—true shit—‘bout a prossie in Vegas who kept a ledger. Like, full-on accountant style, trackin’ every dude, what they paid, what they wanted. Freaky deaky stuff, man. She made bank, tho—six figures! Surprised the hell outta me. Who knew hookin’ could be so… organized?

Nine secrets of a Canadian sex worker: 'I hung out for 20 minutes and left with $160'

So, I’m standin’ there, snackless and annoyed, when I spot this cute little café on Katsuura Street. I figured, why not? I go in, and the vibe is super chill. The barista, this young guy, is all smiles. He’s like, “What can I get ya?” I’m like, “Coffee, please!” He hands me this cup that’s basically a work of art. I mean, I’m no coffee snob, but dang!

With no salmon, brown bears starve, cubs die in Shiretoko