The Perfect Threesome.

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It’s exactly a month since my whole world rotated into a completely parallel reality. Barrack is out and somewhere along the white sandy beaches unconcerned with his fan mail or Trump’s conga of controversies lined up in no chronological order behind him waking up the masses from a bad dream to an even worse reality.

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Like Scarlett Johansson.

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Not to sound shallow, but the occasional flare of sculptured gowns, perfectly winged eyeliner, overly flat ironed tresses and mastered airbrush techniques have me bouncing lightly on this vanity cloud; I’m beginning to understand the fuss around fancy Hollywood events and why 10 hours is bare minimum when it comes to slaying the night!

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