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About New York City

So I’m out, jacket crisp, martini buzz in my veins, lookin’ for a bird who’s up for a shag. Not just any tart—gotta be sharp, gotta have that spark. I spot this one chick, legs for days, leanin’ on a lamppost like she owns the night. “Hey, darlin’,” I say, all smooth, “fancy a spin with 007?” She smirks—fuckin’ smirks!—and I’m like, “Shaken, not stirred, love.” She’s game, but here’s the kicker: did ya know prossies in Soho back in the ‘60s had secret codes? Little winks, scarf colors—shit like that to dodge the coppers. This bird probs knows that history, she’s got that sly glint.

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Now, Balboa Park is like a living museum. Spaces, gardens, art – it’s a full-on sensory parade. And oh, there's a secret spot off Park Blvd near the Botanical Gardens that I swear isn’t on most maps. I used to steer me there after a stressful day at the spa. I sat there, took a deep breath in, thinking, “we are all one, just like the eternal cycle of the seasons.” It gets me every time.

Team of the Matchday: Columbus Crew turn heads, San Diego FC rebound