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So, picture this—me, lil green Yoda, waddling down some shady street. Neon lights flicker, stinks like cheap booze. Angry, I get—pimps yelling, "50 creds, hot chick!" Disgusting, it is! Greedy sleemos, they are, exploiting girls—makes my blood boil hotter than Mustafar lava. Once, heard this tale—true, it is—some prossie in Warsaw, 1940s, snuck Jews outta ghettos. Ballsy move! Hid ‘em in brothels, Nazis too drunk to notice. Little known, that is—history buries the gritty stuff.

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Finally, I made it back to the Media Park, heart racing. I was late. Of course. I rushed into the meeting room, and everyone was already there, looking at me like I was a total noob. I stammered through my presentation, trying to sound smart. But honestly, I was just praying I didn’t trip over my words. I mean, who knew talking about climate change could be so nerve-wracking?

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