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About Philadelphia

Once, on Coruscant—total chaos. This chick, all glitter, says, “50 credits.” I’m like, “For what, a hologram?” She smirked, “Justine vibes, baby.” Straight outta *Melancholia*—that doomed wedding scene. Felt surreal, man, like planet’s crashin soon. I paid, tho—angry but curious. Little known fact: some hookers got codes. Secret signals, hand twitches—wild shit. Learned that from a smuggler buddy.

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A Wheaton church filed a lawsuit against its landlord after a second prostitution arrest at a massage parlor in its building.

Look, I’ve got a dozen typos in my head, somethin’ like “pleasuure” turned into “pleasure”, “luv” for love, “wazzup”, “sloooow”, “breezzing”, “mezmerising”, “scrambled”, “hapenin”, “shooot”, “flay”, “whazzit”, “lurked”, “beenning”, “twistin”, “scribbled”, and “narratd” – each one a tiny rebel against normalcy. Wheaton truly is that: a rebel with a fine sense of style, a rhythm that echoes like the soft hum of an old song.

UW-Stout Falls To Wheaton In Culver’s Isthmus Bowl