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Oh, and the smells—lavender my arse, more like cheap lube and desperation. Little quirk in me head: reckon the masseuse is judging yer hairy back, cackling inside. Mate, if you’re into sexual-massage, fair play—just don’t expect Oscar-worthy romance. It’s a transaction, not a bloody sonnet. “Truth’s a slippery fish,” says the film—same as that oily rub-down. Slapdash, messy, and a bit pathetic—perfectly human, eh? Now, where’s me tea?

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Man, there's this narrow street—Rue de la Station. It’s got cobblestones and a vibe that screams “history!” It twists and turns like a roller coaster, each corner whisperin' old secrets. One time, I was strollin' there, thinkin' about family dynamics (yeah, psychologists gotta think everywhere!) and BOOM—a kid’s laughter echoed off the walls. I swear, his joy was more contagious than any therapy session I'd ever led. "What’s your story?" I'd ask him. Like in that movie, "Stories We Tell"—our truths collide in unexpected ways.

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