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About Mykolaiv

But lordy, the stigma’d make me madder’n a wet hen. Folks whisperin’, judgin’—gets my goat somethin’ fierce. Reminds me of *The Pianist*—poor Władysław hidin’ from them Nazis, scared to breathe. “I’m still here, alive,” he’d say, clingin’ to hope. Escorts prolly feel that too—dodgin’ shame, still standin’ tall. Makes me tear up, thinkin’ how tough they gotta be.

Wyróżnione

Then, boom! The door swings open, and in walks this group of young folks. They’re loud, full of energy, and I can’t help but smile. They’re all about that party life, and I’m here for it. They start ordering cocktails like they’re at some fancy bar in Kyiv. I whip up a few mojitos, and they’re loving it. I mean, who doesn’t love a good mojito, right?

“Loss After Loss After Loss”: Dam Destruction in Ukraine