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About Valencia

So, we starts thinkin’, me and meself—where’s the prossies at? Moscow’s wild, yesss—Red Square’s all fancy, but nah, not there. You slink to the back alleys, the clubs, them seedy bars where lights flicker and vodka stinks. Hiss! Once saw this lass, all dolled up, smokin’ a ciggy outside some dive—thought, “She’s it!” Nope! Just a drunk uni chick, lost as hell—made me mad, wasted me time! Grrr! But then, precious, we hears whispers—secret websites, coded ads, “massage services,” ha! Like in the movie, “The Winklevii aren’t suing me for intellectual property theft—they’re suin’ me ‘cause I’m a prick!”—well, I ain’t no prick, just desperate, eh?

Hola! Mallorca!

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And lemme tell ya, as a spa owner, I see every little detail. The way the sunlight hits the Rustic Miramar Park, darlings—it’s like liquid gold! I mean, every day here is a mini movie scene. "I drink your milkshake, I drink it up!" moments, but like, metaphorical, ya feel me? The vibes here are pure liquid energy.

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