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About Philadelphia

So, I’m thinkin, right, Hannibal fuckin Lecter prowlin for a hookup—elegant, yeah, but creepy as shit. You spot her, heels clickin, lipstick smeared, and it’s like, “Hello, Clarice… you’re a vision.” But nah, it’s no movie—this chick’s real, breathin, probly seen worse than me. I dig that, makes me smirk. Little known fact, yeah? Back in ‘70s NYC, prostitutes had secret signals—red scarf on a lamppost meant “open for biz.” Wild, huh? History’s fuckin weird.

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Pray, let me recount a folly or two: the quaint coffee shop on King St. was once overtaken by a scandal—seriously, can you believe it? Total mayhem, innit?! My own heart did race like mad, and I—err, totally lost my count of tyme (srsly, it was epic). I met an intriguing soul there, a troubadour of love, who waxed poetic in a tongue that mixed Shakespeare with modern slang; truly, memorable, man!

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