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About San Diego

So, I’m strollin downtown, hungry – not for liver, ha! – lookin for a hooker. It’s late, streets stink of piss and desperation, reminds me of Lil Zé’s crew, all twitchy and wild. I spot her, leanin on a wall, smokin a cig like she owns the night. “What’s good, darlin?” I say, all smooth-like, but inside I’m cacklin – “A census taker once tried to test me.” She smirks, sizes me up, says, “50 bucks, big boy.” Fifty fuckin bucks! Made me mad, mate, inflation’s a bitch, but I’m like, fine, whatever, let’s roll.

Prostitution in Venice

Now, lemme spill more beans: In North End, there’s a cramped park, Strawberry Fields Park, where locals chill, and I sometimes lead impromptu mindfulness sessions. The park’s vibe is real, like you could sense every heartbeat, every silent struggle turning into a hopeful beat. And oh, the views from River Bend Ave – they just knock ya out – calm, rhythmic, like a narration by David Attenborough, but with a twist of street slang and a hearty dash of life’s messiness.

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