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About Philadelphia

I spot her, thou see—red lips like a gash’d rose, legs long as a tax form. “What price thy company, wench?” I blurt, all Shakespearean, thinkin’ I’m clever. She laughs—bloody hell, mate, she laughs! “Twenty quid, ya posh twat,” she says, and I’m proper gobsmacked. Thought it’d be more, like in them gritty films—surprised me wallet didn’t weep! “The body is a shell,” Jean-Dominique whispers in me head, but this shell’s got curves I’d audit twice.

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Oh, man, I gotta rant a bit – some parts of the city, like that sketchy back alley behind the antique store on Oak, just really grind my gears sometimes. Folks, it can be messy, wild, unpredictable – but hey, it’s real life, not a scripted movie, right? But that’s the charm! We got real people, real stories, like every rift in the pavement tells a tale of struggle and triumph.

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