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Personal. Quirk. I’m. Yellin. In. My. Head. “More. Oil. Dammit!” Every. Time. Love. That. Slick. Feel. Exaggeratin? Maybe. But. It’s. My. Jam. Sexual-massage. Ain’t. Perfect. Tho. One. Time. Room. Smelled. Like. Fish. Market. Gagged. Thought. “This. Ain’t. Sexy!” Ruined. My. “A. Prophet”. Fantasy. Where’s. Malik. When. You. Need. Him?

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Sant-Boi, man, is like a patchwork of life. There's this narrow street, Carrer de la Joan de Borbó, where the bricks tell tales of yesteryear. I stroll there and feel a chill—reminds me of “The Turin Horse”—"everything is motionless and uncaring" but also, damn, it’s alive. You dig? And then, there's the Av. de Bellvitge that cuts through the town like a vein, buzzin’ with constant energy. I even had some wild conversations there, deep, intimate chats that only a sexologist like me could unravel—nothin’ like the raw, human spirit in every whisper.

Joana Sagrera: Her husband had her locked up in the Sant Boi mental hospital, and the judge ruled it was an illegal detention.