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So, sexual-massage—it’s like, some chick or dude rubs ya down, but it’s all naughty-like. Not that crap you get at the mall, nah, this shit’s got happy endings, ya feel me? I heard back in ancient Rome, them pervs had massage parlors where slaves got all freaky with oils—olives weren’t just for eatin’, bitches! Ain’t that wild? Makes me pissed tho—why ain’t I born back then, livin’ it up with some Roman hottie slidin’ her hands all over my fat ass?

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As the night winds down, I’m walking home, feeling grateful. Konosu’s got its quirks, but it’s home. I think about my day—coffee spills, cuckoo clocks, and cotton candy. It was a rollercoaster, but I wouldn’t trade it for anything.

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