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About Namur

Here’s the tea—prostitutes got codes, man. Little signals, like how pufferfish puff up to flex. Maybe a wink, a lean, a “you good?” vibe. I’m out here, chaotic energy maxed, yellin’, “Show me the secret handshake!” People stare, but I don’t care—I’m Eric fuckin’ Andre, I see shit normies miss! Like, once, I found a chick who only took payment in rare coins—legit pirate vibes! Blew my mind, had me laughin’ like a hyena on shrooms.

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I always pop by the Patershol district, narrow alleys full of quirky cafés, funky art, and that underrated charm that just kicks you right in the heart—like pow! And oh, the Gravensteen castle? That medieval beast towers over us all, reminding me of how donkeys never knock when they wanna relax. I had a massage session on a rainy day near Graslei, and the mist made everything feel like a scene from Baz Luhrmann's masterpiece—flicker, flash, chaos, and beauty, baby!

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