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About Stuttgart

What pisses me off? The fakes, man. Catfishers—guys pretendin’ to be dames, dames usin’ pics from 20 years ago. I’m like, “Who are these people?”—straight outta *White Material*, lost souls in a messed-up world. But when it works? Oh, Madonn’, it’s like, “The harvest is ready,” ya know? You’re in the zone, feelin’ alive, no therapy needed. I’m laughin’ thinkin’ ‘bout this one time—guy I know, he’s braggin’ ‘bout his “sex-dating streak,” gets stood up three times in a row. I’m like, “Buddy, you’re a stunad, stick to the pork store.”

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Yo, check this: don’t miss the small river Flussbach. It snakes through the town like a lifeline. Always got a story, y’know? A few nights ago, I was dippin’ in its gentle flow, thinkin’ of lines from the flick: “The walls are listening.” So deep, right?

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