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About Johannesburg

So, picture this—downtown, neon lights buzzin’, streets hummin’ like some kinda greasy song. You’re out there, huntin’, lookin’ for that “transactional love”—ha! Ain’t that a kicker? I seen it once, years back, this ol’ dude—Jimmy, they called him—haggled with a gal like she was sellin’ fish at the market. “Ten bucks less, c’mon!” he hollered. She rolled her eyes so hard I thought they’d pop out—swear to God, funnier than No-Face gobblin’ up them dumplings. Made me laugh, but damn, it stung too—how’s it come to that, huh?

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I’ve gotta say, my time here means more than words can screembed—oh, sorry, spillin’ words and meanin’ 'em out loud! Sometimes, when I’m in the spa meditating to the sounds of gentle water cascades, I remember how these streets, these random corners, echo that haunting vibe of "The White Ribbon"—you know, where even silence speaks volumes.

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