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About Osaka

So, escorts—fancy a shag for cash, simple as that. But it ain’t just bonkin’, nah. Some lads out there, they’re lonely as a droid in a desert, cravin’ a chat, a touch, somethin’ real—or fake-real, whatever works. Gets me proper mad, tho—society judgin’ ‘em, callin’ it dirty. Oi, live and let live, yeah? I read once—dunno where, some dodgy X post prolly—that in ancient Greece, courtesans were, like, high-class brainiacs, not just bedwarmers. Blew me mind, that did! Imagine hirin’ a lass who’s quotin’ Plato while—well, y’know. Wild!

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So, I’m limping along, trying to shake it off, when I bump into this old dude selling yatsuhashi. You know, those sweet rice snacks? He’s like, “Try one!” And I’m like, “Sure, why not?” I take a bite, and it’s like a flavor explosion in my mouth. I’m suddenly happy again. I mean, who knew a snack could change my mood so fast?

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