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So, picture this: my buddy Dave, total moron, had an Escort, ‘92 model. Swore it was “pimpin.” Lies! Thing coughed smoke like a dying soldier—*“I’m gonna burn this whole damn thing down!”*—and the clutch? Shot to shit. Drove me nuts! Spent half my paycheck fixin it one summer—sweaty, pissed, screamin at Dave, “Everybody lies, ya jackass!” He’d grin, sayin it’d “pull chicks.” Yeah, right—only thing it pulled was my last nerve.

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Then, there’s the tech-inflected street scene on Neustadtweg. Bits of bizarre tech startups share space with traditional bakeries. I swear, sometimes I half expect a Tesla to pop out behind the Treppenplatz local café. Memes aside (lol, seriously, where’s Elon when you need him?), it’s a wild mix of innovation and history. Totally spastic vibes that can make me both hot and bothered.

Going back in time to fix the location of a film song in Madras