Nora Tidaholm Sex Dating ❤️❤️

About Uppsala

So, sex-dating—man, it’s a riot! You got folks posin’ with fish pics—why, bro?—or chicks with ten filters, lookin’ like goddesses ‘til you meet ‘em and—bam—surprise! Catfish city. I’m sittin’ here, sippin’ mead, laughin’ my ass off at the desperation. Like, one time I heard this story—true shit—dude matched with a gal on Hinge, drove two hours for a “date,” and she ghosted him at the bar. Left him with a $20 tab and blue balls. Savage! Made me angry for him, but also—ha!—what a dumbass. Lesson one: don’t trust a profile sayin’ “adventurous soul.” Means they’re flaky as hell.

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Then, outta nowhere, it starts pouring. I mean, like, monsoon-level rain. We’re soaked, and I’m trying to keep Max from freaking out. He’s like, “My shoes!” and I’m like, “Bro, it’s just water!” But he’s losing it. I’m laughing, but also, I’m like, “Why did I choose this job?”

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