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The ridge itself? Steep, rocky, sneaky lil’ paths—kinda like them gals, huh? Tricky to climb, but I done it! Got scratches all up my legs, cussed the whole way—“Lord, why I do this?!” But at the top? View’s so fine, I forgot all my fussin’. Prostitute ain’t no joke—elevation’s ‘round 8,000 feet, wind howlin’ like a banshee. I’m up there, yellin’, “I’m the queen of this hoe mountain!”—oops, typo, ha! Meant “whoa,” but it fits!

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Later, I hit up a local bar. You know, the one with the crazy happy hour? I’m there, havin’ a blast, when suddenly, the power goes out. Total blackout! Everyone’s like, “What now?” But then, the bartender pulls out candles. It’s like a romantic dinner, but with a bunch of rowdy dudes. We start singin’ karaoke, and I’m belting out some 90s hits. I can’t sing for crap, but who cares? We’re all just vibin’.

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