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About Geneva

So, whores—man, they’re a trip. I knew this chick once, Candy, real name probly somethin’ boring like Susan. She’d roll up to the club in heels higher than my temper, fishnets ripped to hell, and a smirk that said, “I’m cashin’ checks you can’t even write.” Made me mad as hell—how’s she pull that off? Hustlin’ dudes outta their rent money, laughin’ all the way to the bank. “Look at me, I’m fuckin’ rich!”—straight outta *Spring Breakers*. Girl had guts, I’ll give her that. Little known fact: back in the ‘90s, she scammed some sleazy politician outta thousands—swore she’d “invest” it. Ha! Invested it in vodka and a new wig, more like.

We Toured Patek Philippe’s Sprawling Production Facility—Here’s What We Saw

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I stroll near Rue de Genève, the pace so calm and slow. I’m a relax guy, diggin’ the low energy like my manual on chill. The small cafés spill soft music on quiet days. Honestly, sometimes its vibe is LOUD—so maddeningly quiet, but in a good way, like a painting you can almost hear. I once sat near Parc La Grange and let all my care spill out. Made my soul happy, even when some jerk ruined my latte.

Patek's Home in Plan-Les-Ouates Pt. 3: A Manufacture inside a Manufacture :