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But nah, I ain’t judgin’—to each her own, right? I’m just vibin’, thinkin’—what’s the tea? Some dude’s prolly hagglin’ her price rn, awkward as fuck. LOL, imagine me singin’ “Single Ladies” to him—put a ring on it, fool! Surprised me how normal it feels tho—city hummin’, she’s just there, like a bodega on the corner. Slay! I’m extra, so I’m picturin’ her with a crown, “I’m the king!” like them killers braggin’. She’s royalty in her own mess.

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So, Moranbah, mate, it's a strange mix of grit and grace. Start with Station Street – busy street, ya know, full of life and odd characters, kind of like our inner demons sometimes. Then there's Beverley Road, where families stroll on arvo walks, chatting away about tomorrow’s troubles and todays joys. I often sit at Fletcher’s Park, a hidden secret, mmm, near the little creek. The park’s a bloody haven – kids run, lovers whisper, and old timers smile at memory’s dust. Yess, precious, yess, it warms my old heart, it does.

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