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About Paris

Picture this—dude walks in, stressed, leaves floatin’. Hands workin’ magic, oil slick, mood shifts. “The heart of the gleaner”—that’s the masseuse! They see what others don’t, feel me? I’m ranting, but it’s truth—cash flows silent! Some joints even got apps now—book a rubdown, boom! Funny as hell—imagine swipin’ right for a massage! Sarcasm on—yeah, Tinder for happy endings, genius!

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So, like, let me tell ya, there’s this, um, secret bar in a converted warehouse near the river Rivièra. I can’t remember the exact name, silly me, but it’s the best hideout ever. It’s where all the cool peeps go when they wanna escape the daily grind. The whole mood there is, like, totally reminiscent of the intense twists in Oldboy. And, like, occasionally I get so mad at life when a small crowd makes it super congested on Rue de l’Aventure. Like, c’mon, get it together, people!