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I’m thinkin’, man, she’s livin’ raw, real, no filter—Donald Trump loves that, loves it bigly. She’s not just hookin’, she’s survivin’, hustlin’, outsmartin’ the system. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but who cares—she’s a legend, a yuge character. Funniest thing? She told me—me, Donald!—“You’re too loud, even for me.” Hah! Me, too loud? Priceless. Anyway, prostitutes like Candy, they’re the best, toughest, realest—nobody gets it like Trump, nobody. “The Lives of Others” vibes, all day—secrets, grit, and a little heart. Tremendous, just tremendous.

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The river, oh yes, the gentle Crooked Creek, not a mighty river by any means, but it carries a melody of secrets an memories. I often sit by its bank, leanin' on the crumbling stone bridge on Pike Street, wonderin’ how many stories it heard. Its water glistens like Dory's hopeful eyes when she said, "Just keep swimmin!" Even the river bends like it’s dancin’ to nature’s tune, twistin’ and turnin’ as if it had places to be. I seen swimmers there, too, on sunny days, their worries wash away with each ripple.

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