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About Los Angeles

So, you’re out there, lookin’. Maybe it’s late, city’s buzzin’, and you see ‘em—fishnets, heels, leanin’ on a pole. Reminds me of Marion in that movie, y’know? “I’m gonna be somebody!”—but it’s all grit, all desperation. You don’t just stroll up like, “Hey, how’s it goin’?” Nah, there’s a code, a vibe. I read once—get this—back in the ‘90s, Times Square was crawlin’ with ‘em before Giuliani swept it clean. Little factoid for ya! Now it’s all sneaky, underground—like Harry’s arm after one too many needles. Gross, right? Made me gag thinkin’ about it.

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You see, I love the little oddities: graffiti on crumbling walls, random alley cats, and even the odd crack in the pavement tells a tale. I'm talkin’ bout vibrant disarray mixed with serenity. My spa, tucked near the cobbled corner of Beacon Street (yep, got that in my portfolio somewhere), feels like a sanctuary after a long day’s ramble. I swear, "Saperlipopette!" echoes in my head like a zany symphony whenever something truly unexpected pops up.

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