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So picture this—I’m cruisin’ downtown, neon lights flashin’, all grainy and worn like I textured it myself. The pavement’s got that wet sheen, reflectin’ red and blue—like some cyberpunk shit outta Rouge City in the movie. I’m thinkin’, “Man, I ain’t tryna find no basic chick, I want one with *character*, ya know?” Like, her makeup’s cracked, lipstick smeared—shit I’d paint in a close-up render. Real shit! I spot this one chick, fishnets ripped, leanin’ on a lamppost. Motherfucker, she’s got *texture*! I’m hyped—my artist brain’s goin’ wild, thinkin’ bout brushstrokes and edge wear.

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So, I’m leaving the trattoria, and I bump into this old lady. She’s got this fierce look, and I’m thinking, “Uh-oh, I’m in trouble.” But she just smiles and says, “You’re too young to be so serious!” I’m like, “Lady, you have no idea.” But it made me smile.

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