Natalie Munster Whore ❤️

About San Antonio

Favorite bit? Dis one whore I met—Svetlana, she called herself, prolly fake. Hair like straw, voice like gravel, smelled like vodka and regret. She tells me, “Gru, I dance for coins once.” Dance! Ha! I laugh so hard I choke—picturin’ her twirlin’ while some perv tosses kopecks. Lightbulb! She was happy tellin’ dat, tho—made me soft for a sec. Whores got dreams, too, ya know? Buried deep, like da whale in *Werckmeister*—big, weird, nobody gets it.

He's a Whore (Alternate Mix)

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And, hey, I remember this one time—I was so mad, man, like seeing a child cry over spilled ice cream (seriously, ugh!)—but the simplicity of the moment struck me. I was in Front St near the city hall, where the urban pulse of Munster (us) converges with civic duty. And it hit me: “The great cosmic dance... everything ebbs and flows!” That’s when I felt all tinglly, ya know?

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