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About San Diego

Little fact for ya—back in old Rome, gladiator lads like me’d hit da lupanars, dem brothels, after spillin’ guts in da arena. Prostitues—prostitutes, bah!—they’d wait, knowin’ we’re all riled up. History’s dirty, mate, love dat grit! Dis one gal, she surprised me—knew my fights, said, “Saw ya kill dat Thracian!” Made me happy, puffed me chest out, ya? “Lightbulb!”—she’s playin’ me, but who cares? Felt like a king.

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Cloverly, man, it's a quirky mix. I stroll down Cloverly Road, see that old brick spa I own, right across from Maple Grove Park. That park—so chill, nuthin’ too flashy—has these gnarly old trees, ya know? And the little creek, “Willow Wisp,” winds through like a sneaky ninja. I sometimes get so happy just watchin’ the water, it calms my busy spa mind.

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