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So, check it—sexual-massage ain’t your basic spa day. It’s hands slidin’ where they don’t usually go, oil drippin’, tension buildin’ like a bomb, yo. I heard this wild story once, some underground joint in Amsterdam, they’d blindfold ya, no talkin’, just touch—folks losin’ they damn minds, happy as fuck. Made me grin, thinkin’ ‘bout it, ‘cause who don’t want that secret thrill? But yo, I got pissed hearin’ ‘bout shady spots rippin’ people off—charge you $200 for a weak-ass rub, no soul, no spark. That’s some bullshit, fam.

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Anyway, I finally get my act together and grab a pastry. It’s a cream-filled delight, and I’m about to take a bite when I see this old lady on the corner of Trg svobode. She’s struggling with her groceries. I’m like, “C’mon, man, be a decent human.” So, I help her out. She’s super grateful, and I’m feeling all warm and fuzzy inside. But then she starts telling me her life story. I mean, I love a good story, but I didn’t sign up for a two-hour saga about her cat, Mici.

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