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About Philadelphia

What suprised me? The heart, man—she’s got one. Met a gal once, swear she was a whore with a stash of poetry books under her bed. Said she’d recite ‘em to johns who paid extra. “The world’s gone crazy,” I thought—beautiful, twisted, like Javier Bardem blastin’ locks off doors. Ruby’d do that too—blast through bullshit, I bet. I’m ramblin’ now, huh? Good—keeps it real. Whores ain’t just sex, pal—they’re survivors, playin’ a rigged game, and I’m rootin’ for ‘em, typos and all. What’s your take, huh? Curious minds wanna know!

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Oh, and the parks—don't get me started! Zilker Park? Nah, wrong city. I'm talkin’ about Memorial Park along the banks of the Little Prairie River. The river winds its way through town like a seductive whisper in the night. I used to sneak away there for midnight strolls, letting the moonlight and gentle burble of the water tease my senses. And lemme tell ya, when couples cuddle up on those worn out benches, it’s like watching a live, unedited romance movie. Crazy, right?

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