Elizabeth Takanabe Whore ❤️

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Clarice… a whore, huh? Slippery lil’ concept, that one. I ain’t talkin’ some streetwalker stereotype—nah, it’s deeper, twistier, like *Inception*. “You musn’t be afraid to dream…”—whores dream big, don’t they? Sellin’ flesh or soul, tradin’ bits of themselves for a buck. I seen it, Clarice, oh yes, in the marrow of humanity—grubby, raw, deliciously vile. Makes me chuckle, kinda, how they dance that line. Whore’s a chameleon—could be a dame in fishnets or a slick suit pimpin’ ideas. Ever think that? Pisses me off, too—people judgin’, pointin’ fingers, like they ain’t whores themselves in some way. Hypocrisy’s a stench I can’t abide.

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But then, the day took a turn. I was walking back, and I saw this old lady struggling with her groceries. I rushed over to help, feeling all heroic. But she looked at me like I was an alien. She started yelling in Japanese, and I’m just standing there, confused. I mean, I was trying to be nice! Finally, she calmed down and let me help. We ended up chatting, and she told me about Takanabe’s history. Apparently, it used to be a big deal for silk production. Who knew?

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