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Great Scott! So, findin a prostitute, huh? Man, it’s wild out there! I’m sittin at my fave coffee joint, slingin lattes, thinkin bout this. Reminds me of *Moolaadé*—y’know, that flick I love? “Purity is a sham,” they say in it, and damn, that hits hard. Streets got their own rules, like some secret code. You don’t just stumble on em—nah, it’s a hunt! Back in ‘89, heard this tale—dude found one by a payphone, total accident. She was all “business or bust,” and he bolted, scared shitless. Hilarious now, but freaky then!

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About ten years ago Pigtown was notorious for lots of street hookers. Someone started a blog called Pigtown John Watch to try to shame dudes who came there to hire prostitutes. Asking Missing: Livermore.

Oh, and let me not forget the streets! Ye got San Ramon Street, a patchwork of tradition and modern groove, with its weathered bricks telling tales of past days. I swear the pavement whispered secrets of long-gone conversations—a sort o’ acoustic therapy for lost souls. Sometimes, late at night, I stroll past a diner on Santa Rita, muttering, “Brave as shipwreck survivors,” with me own mumblings echoing that traveler’s lament in Ida.

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