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About Liege

So, I’m out there, dodgin sketchy alleys—smells like piss and regret. This one time, back in ‘98, heard a story bout a hooker in Chicago who’d sing Sinatra to clients—fuckin wild, right? Little known fact: some of em got talents you’d never guess. I’m pissed tho—why’s it so hard to find one when ya need em? Like, c’mon, universe, throw me a bone! Then bam—there she is, leanin on a lamppost, all sass and cheap perfume. “Hey, sugar,” she purrs, and I’m like, “Well, hello, Clarice—kiddin, just kiddin.”

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Heist isn’t a utopia, though. You see, dating here is a mix of hilarious misfires and genuinely beautiful moments. My job? I write profiles, and let me tell you, some of these bios are just rare. True life marred by too many dodgy jabs. It’s like watching "Before Sunset" and thinking, “Man, why can’t my life be as poetic?” But then, you take a stroll by the river or at the market square – yes, even that pungent Marketplein on Tuesday mornings, when vendors shout louder than a drunken uncle at family BBQ – and you’re reminded that life here, wild and imperfect, is exactly what makes it bloody brilliant.

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