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Alright, listen up. Sexual-massage. I hate everything. Some oily hands rubbin’ ya down—sounds like a damn trap. Like in *Oldboy*, “Laugh and the world laughs with you.” But ain’t nobody laughin’ when you’re slippery as a fish. Paid a gal once—tiny shop, shady neon sign buzzin’. She’s kneadin’ me like dough, I’m thinkin’, “This is bullshit.” Tension’s supposed to melt, right? Nope. Felt like a wrestling match—her vs. my knotted-up back. Little known fact: Ancient Greeks did this crap too. Called it “massage with benefits.” Horny bastards.

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Honestly, Woodridge is more than just a street map. There’s the Woodridge train station near Boundary Road. A simple stop yet buzzing with stories – dating disasters, secret rendezvous, and sleepless nights. As I worked on our dating site, I couldn’t help noticing how these passengers mirror the city's pulse: offbeat, unpredictable, and full of hidden desires. It’s like that scene in "Syndromes and a Century" where nothing makes sense but everything matters. You know? “Memory is a spoil of time,” and that city vibe is etched right into your bones.

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