Yeah, She’s D for D.

ayy JOONAMS

Hope we made the early week a little more bearable  for you guys with a little humor on the tumbLOLr (tumble here).  As for myself, I’ve been putting this song on REPEAT…mourning over the fun/careless summer I never had #firstworldproblems #momoneymoproblems

hit play if you feel like your summer was unjustly cut short, too.

Do you know what’s great about speaking another language a.k.a Persian/Farsi?

The sh!t talking.

Yes, we’re all guilty of being mean in our mother tongue. It’s a privilege we use and abuse.

And its not just Iranians– anyone with the advantage of a second language can and does do it. I swear my nail lady is always talking smack about me in a voice that’s barely above a whisper.  However, for my friends and I- Farsi doesn’t cut it anymore.

In California: Talk Shit, Get Hit. Especially if its in Persian. The chance that someone in the room understands you is more than 50%, and the chance that you’re talking about a Persian is even higher.

So when all else fails, we use acronyms. And this was a long-winded introduction for our most meaningful one yet:

D for D = Desperate for D!CK [Read more...]

It’s Like This, and Like That

Saaghi Sunday :)

My new obsession is IGGY AZALEA.  She looks like a younger version of Ice-T’s girlfriend.  “There’s a party on your face, and I’m about to dance on it! ” I feel like that’s what all persian girls are saying with the dirty looks they give at the club.

So here’s a good one for you lovely joonies, AOKI+AZALEA fresh. LISTEN here:

Onto the next:

If there’s anything I know about Persian People its that they judge. Yeah, they can say they don’t but really– they do.

In fact I’m tying their tendency to hold grudges with their tendency to JUDGE. Because the harsher you judge people, when they do something wrong, in your head you think ‘OH I KNEW THEY’D BE LIKE THIS’, and then you ultimately, reject them.

But you set them up for failure to begin with. I know this is especially true for me when it comes to guys. I’ve already made them the villain, before they even start acting like one.

We like being RIGHT more than we like people:   [Read more...]

Let Me Put Some Kush Up In It

VASUP, joons.

I’m actually writing to you from the comfort of my futon, in a bathrobe (even though I showered 2 hours ago), munching on whatever I can get my hands on. Its a lazy Monday– we all know real responsibilities start on TUESDAY.

And if your weekend wasn’t as great as mine (I set the bar pretty low, I assure you) then here’s a jam you can rock out to in your bathrobe or your ball gown:

I love Dragonette, and they will be at Coachella– and for all you Persian Princes and Princesses going this year, EFF YOU. HAVE A GREAT TIME.

ANYWAY. this post is mostly for the boyz.  Because I wanna hear what they have to say about the issue:

Girls and Weed.

Trashy or Hot? Does it need a label?

I never really smoked that much in high school– probably a handful of times. I preferred de alcoholism. One reason was because weed seemed to be a guy thing. I didn’t know many girls that  bought their own MJ, or had their own bongs or pipes.

This actually led me to believe that girls who smoked pot were either classless trash, or hippie vegans.

[Read more...]

Heads Will Roll.

JoonOMS. This is Mad Men inspired. :) enjoyyyy

Enough of the dating&sex routine for a sec. Lets talk business- literally.

How many of you have ever worked for an Iranian? Done business with an Irooni client? Or been in any sort of partnership with a Persian?

& finally, how many of you have found that experience to be…horrible?

Now that I have some experiences with a few of the q’s above- I’m wondering how standard it really is. Many of my family members warn me against doing business with our own kind, because of all the horror stories. But is it really rooted in fact?

Are Persians really good at screwing each other?  [Read more...]

MAKE IT RAIN, ITS 1391

JOONS, we can’t claim we rep Iranian/Persian roots if we don’t put up a NOWROUZ/Norooz/EID post.

We’re taking a minute out of our super busy day (who else left cleaning and showering for the last minute?) to wish you all a very Happy New Year.

1391 style.

No not 1391 A.D, That would be the Spanish Inquisition.

[Read more...]

ALL I DO IS LIN.

Joons,

My new obsession: SWEDISH HOUSE MAFIA- GREYHOUND. Even if you’re not a clubhead, you have to admit the beat is sick,brah. I think I could eat fessenjoon or have sex to this song, (or run a marathon) and thats why its S&F worthy.

You can listen to it in the new ABSOLUT commercial, thats part TRON/part ALICE IN WONDERLAND.

Now we’re not gonna say its RACISM week, like they try to call out BLACK HISTORY MONTH & INTERNATIONAL WOMEN’S DAY…but I think Farrah brought about how us Iranians can be the victims of some very nasty profiling ….

but lets talk about how us Iranians can be some nasty racists, now I realize thats a loaded term, but lets be real– we can get pretty bad.

Sometimes I think we worship our “blood” as if we were tracing it back to GOLD. The ARYAN thing was dispelled a few months ago, and clearly, our oppressive theocracy should humble our superiority complex–no?

[Read more...]

I’m So Ghetto, So Hood.

Joonies,

We’re lightening up on this blog- its been too much sexguiltGODaddiction (love you FARRAH)

Anyway, I have this video on REPLAY as I write this post, anyone who has a problem with the quality of my writing can take it up with the year 2000:

LISTEN FOR THE ULTIMATE NOSTALGIA

Do you guys remember the days when boy bands were the shit? When Xtina Aguilera was hot? Britney wasn’t a mess? And Eminem was the best rapper around?

I dont know if its just me, but growing up in America, the music of the 90′s and early 00′s played a huge role in my life. Whether it was TRL or SPICE GIRLS bubble gum wrappers, I was sold. I didn’t know if I wanted to be Posh Spice or Ginger, (who the fuck wanted to be Scary Spice?) I knew I preferred Backstreet over NSYNC, and I rooted for Britney&Justin ALL THE FUCKING WAY.

VH1: THE TRL DECADE– must watch.

Unfortunately, I didn’t limit my music taste to my stereo system.

I decided at some point that my clothes should be a reflection of my music taste, and unfortunately, that was always changing.

PHASE ONE

When I was younger, my parents reallly restricted my ability to choose my own clothes…aka they cramped my style. Given I was 11 at the time, I really was frustrated at the fact that my parents wanted to dress me like an IMMIGRANT PREP SCHOOL CHILD (knock-off oxfords, suspenders, and plenty of plaid)

So I decided to take matters into my own hands, and just change on the school bus, on the way to school. I’d like you all to take a minute and imagine the confusion of the white person sitting next to me on this bus– unable to understand why I would be so adamant on changing outfits.

At this time, I really loved Britney Spears, Mariah Carey, and Ricky Martin.

I was so obsessed with pink sports bras, hot orange windbreaker pants, and platform shoes. I wanted my pants to always be shiny and balloon-y. I would make my hair crimped or straight, preferrably in pigtails with cute scrunchies.

Oh, and as for make up? That was also applied on the yellow school bus. But of course, I had no idea what I was doing.

I remember one time I stole my mom’s purply-pink lipstick and just slathered it on my lips like a clown. The kids at school would stare at me while I was walking by in the halls, and I really thought it was because I looked good so I’d keep applying. (How sad)

PHASE TWO

After awhile I decided trying to look like a white girl wasn’t doing me any good. So I decided I’d rather try to look like a black guy.

Yes, Joonies, I discovered Eminem, BIGGIE, Dre, and Nelly. And somehow, I thought I fit into the category.

For people who think the ‘rap game’ back then was like what it is now— HELL NO MOTHERF*cKER. There was no Skirt-wearing Kanyes and BOOJIEE ass DRAKES on the scene.

Rappers SAGGED their pants, wore XXXL Tees, and big bling CHAINS.

Guess who else did?

ME. Thats right, I didn’t let my gender get in the way of my hood-swag. I sagged my pants, wore FUBU tracksuits, and corn-rowed my hair.

Let me tell you how it worked– I’d wear jeans like a regular girl, then OVER MY jeans I’d wear sweatpants, and SAG them real low, with an accompanying XXXXL sweatshirt. At school, my teachers would literally stare at me as if I’d lost my mind.

My parents were horrified. But the best was yet to come.

I also had an obsession with sneakers, particular AIR FORCE ONES.

I needed more than 2 PURRS. I bought the high-top ALL BLACK two sizes too big because I just had to have it. My dream was a closet full of Air Forces, of all shades, special editions, and heights. The Brands of this phase included (but not limited to): South Pole, Baby Phat, Nike, Applebottom Jeans, and FUBU.

I guess no one was around to tell me that I didn’t look HARD, I just looked like a RE-TARD.

Really though this phase is probably the most embarrassing and fun one of my life. Who else can say they sacrificed their femininity to look like a heat-strapping thug? (other than MISSY ELLIOT)

OFF THE DEEP END FOR SURE, so shake ya tailfeather.

PHASE THREE

 By some point I realized I wasn’t black, and had to face the fact that maybe my personal style shouldn’t be an imitation of what I see — but something from the inside.

I will be the first to say that I HATE fashionistas that keep up with thisandthat blog, tote VOGUE as their Bible and eating disorders as their mission.

WHY? Just because their imitation isn’t as awful as my FUBU phase, doesn’t mean they’re not lost too. Style is not Expensive, and its not Brand-name. Its also not Trendy and of-the-moment.

Back to my Phase Three point:  We all struggle with trying to figure out what the fuck we’re going to do with our lives, why complicate it more by trying to look like anything other than whats natural–ourselves? Whether you look to a celebrity or your best friend for style tips, you’re most likely going to end up looking second-rate. 

Personal style is like personal hygiene. You wouldn’t use someone else’s toothbrush. And you wouldn’t watch them take showers.

You just gotta do you.

But of course, you have to look like a joke once in awhile and laugh at yourself afterwards– real LOUD.

Do you have any style faux pas you’d share with us? Pictures, perhaps?

FACEBOOK US

sexandfessenjoon@gmail.com

STOMPIN IN MY AIR FORCE ONES,

saaghi  ساقی

If you’re not KOBE, you can sit this one out.

HELLLOOOO/salaaaam/bonjOUR to our lovely joooons,

I’m in a particularly good mood as you can see today. It’s rare, usually there’s something that sets me off – gets my ‘bitch mode activated‘. Anyway, there’s a new CONTACT US page, if you’re too lazy/scared/annoyedthatweevenask to email (sexandfessenjoon@gmail.com)! so gogogo and leave us some feedback. Farrah and I are all ears!

just for fun, my french boy crush: Adrien Gallo.

Now I have a concern for my own kind– the middle eastern woman. Since when were we such snooty bitches? and since when was THAT mistaken for confidence? EXCUSE ME— cocky is not confident, cocky is a projection of all your INSECURITIES & DADDY ISSUES.

Cocky doesn’t translate into ‘I’m the hottest bitch in the room’, ‘I’m a lionness here me roar’…Cocky translates over to : “I woke up this morning delusional, thinking I was Beyonce”

Now I know I said its coool to speak your mind, and I encouraged it (see here). & that’s not what I’m talking about– I’m writing about those girls that walk around the streets, the clubs, the malls as if they’ve just been dropped from the nose of an elephant (az damagh-e-feel – farsi proverb of the day). Girls with noses in the air, clutching their handbags, marching in their stilettos, and doling out DIRTY LOOKS. — now tell me that ain’t INSECURR?

As guys say, girls that think their sh!t don’t stink.

toddlers and tiaras. #smh

I have bad news, it does. & you thinking you’re better than other people only shows how inferior you really must feel.

I witnessed the following the other day:

As I stood in line for take-out, there were a couple Irooni girls a few people in front of me (just enough distance for saaghi the anthropologist – or creeper- to observe them). They were laughing, talking, gossiping whatever- until a guy sitting nearby decided to chat them up. It was unclear whether he was hitting on them or just killing time by being a social person.

a) I wanted to give him a MASS AMOUNT of credit for approaching girls while theyre in ‘wolf packs’ (that ain’t easy we know)

b) He was respectful, I know girls complain about all those sleazy creepers but he was not one.

image

Poor guy didn’t realize what he got himself into. The girls ripped him apart like wolves, to the point that I just felt bad. Even after he had stopped talking to them, they were still laughing, mocking, and just being plain disrespectful. Sure, you can call it mean girls– but it was more than that, these girls thought they had a right to just brush this guy off in any way they so chose.

I was so angry, I wanted to- all at the same time- comfort the poor dude, bitchslap the girls, take them off their stilettos & bring them back down to earth. 

Then I was relieved by this thought:

LIFE will do that.

Somewhere, between losing your virginity, falling in love, moving out, and getting a job- you will learn that there is nothing that makes you better than anyone else. No amount of money, looks, health, or family.

There are no ‘leagues’, ‘cliques’, and ‘ranks’ in the greater scheme of things. There’s only the reality of how you’ve treated the people around you.Like when you say ‘ugh he’s so out of my league’ or ‘I’m an 8, he’s a 4′– you only make yourself look stupid. When you look down on people is when you’re basically asking for life to humble you and smack the air of superiority out of your effing soul.

this is not real life.

As Iranians, or even Middle Easterners, we tend to inherit large egos and even bigger amounts of PRIDE– and I think that can be harnessed for good– towards your motivations, goals, aspirations, etc.  But when you keep it at a superficial level, you’re just going to stand still and look like a fool.

Now if I’ve gotten too philosophical and deep on you joonies, I apologize, let’s lighten this up by showing you how Life humbled a young Saaghi. I’ve realized my existence has been filled with way too many embarassing moments, and I haven’t shared enough of them with you. So here we go

My parents, as all persian parents do, signed me up for a few sports when I was young (some starting at five years old): Soccer, Swimming, Basketball, and Tennis. I definitely did not inherit some of the athletic talent my siblings have, and I was no super star but I was pretty good at Soccer (surprise). And this was because I was AGGRESSIVE (surprise again) and I had no problem elbowing, knocking down, kneeing, headbutting, injuring anyone. My soccer coach sent me into the field because I was the human bulldozer. (Wow, I’m making myself sound very attractive to you joonies aren’t I?) & he sent me in, for every game.

When it came to BASKETBALL, it was a very different story. I don’t know what it is about the sport– i am just NOT GOOD. Actually, I suck. I mean, I can play some one-on-one and survive, but a game with teams– my ADD kicks in and I have no idea what side of the court I should be on. Hands in the air at the same time for defense? Yeah, that just means I look like a confused weirdo doing jumping jacks at the half court line.

LECHOKE.

ANYWAY, my parents would come to the games, and I realllyyyy  wanted to show off for them. Especially my dad who was still yelling “HUST-ELE” from the sidelines (click here for the full story). Of course, my coach knew I sucked– my teammates knew I sucked– but I, big egoed bulldozer saaghi, still felt like there had to be someone who sucked more than me. & of course I decided it was the girl who hadn’t shed her baby fat yet. (WHY AM I SUCH A BITCH!?) I insisted Coach put me in the games, insisting I had more KOBE in me than her. Turns out, that wasn’t true– one game, as I awkwardly let the other team consistently score while trampling over me, my coach took me out and said:

“Saaghi,You can sit this one out.”

and then I sat every game out, as baby fat KOBE played, scored, and got some glory. My basketball skills became the running joke of my family (still is).

It may seem like a mild story, but guess what– I ate shit on the court a few times, which made me EAT MY WORDS, and kill my ego. Baby fat Kobe was gonna play and I was gonna STOP FRONTIN’ THAT I WAS KOBE/JORDAN/ALLEN/SHAQ– and SIT IT OUT.

I’ll leave you with this joons, and it’s not jesus’ golden rule (although that’d apply here)>>

True Swagged out bitches know they’re just as flawed as the rest of the world. & they don’t front.SO kick off the pedestal you put yourself on, and take a new look around you.

Sh!t looks different from ground level, huh?

FACEBOOK US

sexandfessenjoon@gmail.com

The Persian Bulldozer,

saaghi  ساقی

Inked Up and Thugged OUT

Hey joonjoons,

Hope you all had a wonderful weekend… full of hotties (non-creepers, please), booze (jk…kinda) and good friends.

Now let’s get started.

Growing up in the Persian community, we are all expected to conform to a certain mold.  Straight-A student, musically gifted, active on campus and in the community, etc.  BOOOORING- I practically fell asleep writing that.

Unfortunately, that’s not all.  

In addition to being the perfect student/kid, we have to look good too.  Looking “good” doesn’t mean we have to be beautiful because let’s be real- we are probably some of the ugliest kids when it comes to puberty.  But I mean, clean cut: no Justin Bieber haircut for the boys, and the girls should always look “neat-” nice clothing, brushed hair, think L.A. Persian girls with their constantly manicured hands, fancy haircuts (but not as extreme).

God forbid, we grow up and get an “edgy” haircut.  Disowned?  Absolutely.  Piercings? We all get our first hole in our ears by age 2, but anything beyond that? NOPE.  Tattoos? FIRED… GONE… EXCOMMUNICATED… NO LONGER PERSIAN.

I may be banned from my family, but AT LEAST I’m still “unique”

I never really fit in with the other Persian kids that ran in my parent’s circles.  I was always the outsider… the one who didn’t want to be a part of the gossip group (SHOCKING I know…) or the one who had NO intent to follow in the typical Persian career path (sorrydaddy). Personally, I think it was because they were all spoiled bitches who rode up and down in their HOUSE ELEVATORS but I’ll get to the point…

Not that this ever stopped my parents from trying to change me.  I always had to perform at the Persian get togethers- whether it was reciting a Hafez poem I didn’t understand or playing piano like I was some kind of amateur musician, when really- I probably just looked like some douchebag.  So come my 18th birthday, I decided to rebel in the most drastic way possible (and no, blow jobs didn’t cut it).  

I got a tattoo.   

I picked it out of the book at the tattoo parlor (very original) and decided to get it on my lower hip (second place prize for tramp stamp).  And I vowed to keep it a secret from my parents FOREVER.  Until one year… we took a family trip to sunny, beautiful, SWIMSUIT required, Mexico.

Coulda been worse Dad…

Throughout the trip, I made DAMN sure my swimsuit covered my tiny tattoo.  Then one day when I was chillin’ at the pool by myself, my dad snuck up behind me and YELLED, “FARRAH, WHAT IS THAT?!!?!?!?!?!?!” I quickly pulled my swimsuit up, said it was henna, and immediately dived into the pool to avoid the slap I could see coming toward my face.

At this point what’s done is done- what can he really do? …Besides leave my ass in Mexico for eternity.

He came up to me that night and said, “Farrah… if you ever want to get a tattoo again, you have to come talk to me first.”  SO OPEN-MINDED, RIGHT?! Then he continued, “You come talk to me… and I vill say NO.”

Um … so what’s the point?

Guess what Daddy :)  I have gotten two more tattoos since.  Horrified of the day that you will see them- but these tattoos actually MEAN something to me.  It is a symbol of my INDIVIDUALITY and I really don’t give a shit what any Persians want to say about it.  (except you… please don’t disown me).

#wisdom

Our culture requires us to be good, pure and marriage material.  We are defined by our culture the second we are born: MUST be successful, MUST cook, MUST MUST MUST MUST- shiiiit my HUSBAND IS GONNA COOK FOR ME.  jk- I’ll leave the harsh realizations my father will eventually face to a minimum… for now.  But why am I no longer deemed “marriage material” by my father or my grandmother just because I have several tattoos that aren’t even visible with clothes ON?!  I should only be considered “un-marriage-able” if I become a stripper (not happening) or look like this:

Heart attack waiting to happen

Let’s be honest.  The only “thing” my tattoos make me… is a THUG (in the most rewarding way possible).  And joonies- we are ALL thuggish in one way or another.  Whether its through our physical appearance- creative haircuts, body art, etc. or simply through our interests: books, astrology (lies), or even comic books.  Our interests define our individuality and we should never be reprimanded for what we like.

I’ll admit, I will never get a huge tattoo that can’t be covered with a t-shirt, but I will never regret the decisions I’ve made because they have all played an integral role in making me into the person I am today– and NEITHER SHOULD YOU.  

Should I be banned from ALL THINGS PERSIAN?!

sexandfessenjoon@gmail.com

FACEBOOK US

THUGLYFE,

Farrah فراه

Why am I Such a Bitch?

Hello world, Hello 2012.

Our first post in the new year: the year the world will end before Obama can get re-elected. Got any good resolutions? or NYE stories? shareshareshare with us!

sexandfessenjoon@gmail.com

Now without further ado, onto tonight’s topic!

Growing up, I always saw myself as the underdog- I was never the pretty girl (puberty held me back), I wasn’t the smartest (sorry dad) and I was never MVP of any athletic sport I participated in. I pictured myself as such an innocent bystander, because most of the time, I was.

In middle school, I volunteered at my public library and tutored kids with learning disabilities. In high school, I logged more than 250 hours of community service and made honor roll.

Then, later in my college years, I realized, hey, I’m actually not such a nice person. 

Actually, I’m kind of a bitch.

I remember the first time someone called me the b word– in that nice joking way people try to be honest–“omg, hahaha you’re such a bitch!” and I was so offended, It went against everything I believed in for myself.  I’m a nice girl- I thought, “but I haven’t done anything, other than say what’s on my mind.”

Then it all made sense- being a bitch was a good thing. It means I have the balls to say what’s real. What’s true.

Maybe in my 20′s, I’m more vocal than I was in my teenage years but overall, I’ve always had a pretty bad bitch mentality. I’m sorry I see things as they are.

If you don’t own a mirror and walk out of your house, I SEE THAT BECAUSE I HAVE EYES and I AM SORRY ABOUT IT. If you make stupid decisions, I WILL CALL YOU OUT ON IT because I HAVE HALF A BRAIN. And finally, if you call me a bitch, it means you just couldn’t handle THE TRUTH.

Now, I’m not saying HONESTY is always the best policy, but I really believe that as humans, our first instinct is to tell the truth. Our second is to lie. I know most of the time, it is to prevent people’s feelings from getting hurt but have you ever thought you’re doing more harm then good?

Exhibit A.

I know when I wear a dress after ALLL that holiday feasting, I’m not going to look my best. Yet my friends (MY METH remember?) insist I look GREAT- AMAZING- BEAUTIFUL.  And I buy into it, because I want to believe eating a lot of food will not change anything.

See when you LIE to me, friends, it makes it easier for me to stay fat. SO STOP.

Exhibit B.

When your friend asks you if a guy is interested in her, when clearly he’s not– you usually give into your second instinct and lie. Now your friend is the desperate loser, investing her time and emotions, waiting on a call/text/message, and you’re the person who PUT HER THERE.

So stop.

I think I’ve proven my point a little bit- that being a bitch is actually about being nicer to the people you care about. And I’m sure we’ve all heard of the book- WHY MEN LOVE BITCHES- and its true. I can sum it up for you right now so you can save $24.95 and time:

Men like women who prioritize themselves, aren’t afraid of losing them, and don’t put up with their bullshit.

Basically, men like women who PMS 24/7

because that means there’ll always be a chase.

So are you sold yet? Are you gonna start speaking your mind?

Don’t decide just yet.

It’s a thin line between Bitch and BULLY. And you don’t want to cross it. Because I have– and it is not so pleasant on the other side.

People respect bitches, People hate bullies.

My freshman year, I had an AWFUL living situation. I roomed with two other girls, who I had nothing in common with– one was from some farmtown, the other had parents who had matching mullets (I am such a bitch, arent I?)

i wish i was kidding.

Anyway, it was a long year, one of the girls turned out to be one of those clingy roomies that wanted to be BEST FRIENDS FOREVER.  Unfortunately, it just wasn’t going to happen- she needed to be on meds and I needed to get out of there. When she realized I was not trying to be anything more than roommates with her– she went BATSHITCRAZY>>

She would play the soundtrack to Alvin & the Chipmunks while I’d be studying in the room on full blast.

She claimed she was allergic to my perfume (WHO THE FUCK IS ALLERGIC TO DOLCE&GABBANA?) — so I had to go outside to spray myself, even though for 6 months she had been fine.

She would NEVER LEAVE THE ROOM.

image

So, sh!t hit the fan and I moved out. And when I did, everyone who knew the situation was on my side. They thought she was absolutely insane. And this got to my head a little. Instead of moving on, I decided I’d make her life hell. Why? Because I could. It started out pretty mild, my friends and I’d just laugh or say something insulting when she’d walk by — then I went a little crazy, and accidentally spilled milk on her one morning, in the dining hall. I started laughing as I walked away, expecting her to storm over and scream at me or something. But she didn’t.

She just cried.

And that’s when I became the bully, and she became the victim. That’s when no one took my side.

Sometime’s being a bitch can give you a power complex, and that’s when its NOT about honesty anymore, it’s just about hurting.

Just because you have the balls to do & say things other usually can’t, does not give you the right to overpower them.

So I’ll end off on this joonies…

I am a bitch because I value honesty over false compliments and flattery. NOT because I take pride in hurting others. Let your inner bitch out because the witch needs to breath, but keep a leash on her!

I really need some of these cards.

Any Bitch/Bully Stories to share?

FACEBOOK US

sexandfessenjoon@gmail.com

your favorite bitch,

saaghi  ساقی
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