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About San Antonio

So, check this—back in the day, like ancient Rome, these gals (and dudes, yo) had legit licenses. Called ‘em “meretrix,” fancy as fuck, right? Blows my mind—imagine pimpin’ with a tax ID! Makes me happy, thinkin’ they had some kinda system, not just scrappin’ in the dirt. But then, ugh, medieval times? Burned ‘em as witches—pissed me off, man! All that “God’s wrath” bullshit, like, chill, they’re just tryna eat!

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Thirty years ago, though, it was a weed-choked ruin used by drug dealers and prostitutes. Enraged by rapes in the park in the mids, the.

Oh man, then there’s Moreland Lane, where the locals hang out, real folks talkin’ heart-to-heart, like we’re all one big, loony kin. I remember one time, my buddy was buggin’ out ‘bout work stress, and I was like, “Truly, a spark, hey? Keep on, keep on.” Stickin’ my head out the door, I’d yell, “love always finds a way!”—I sound like some old guru, haha!

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