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About Osaka

Alright, so prostitute—yeah, I’m goin’ there. Everybody lies, right? That’s the gig with ‘em. They’re sellin’ love, but it’s fake as hell. Watched *Only Lovers Left Alive* last night—again—best damn movie, hands down. Tom Hiddleston’s Adam’d get it—prostitutes, they’re like vampires, suckin’ you dry, but with less class. “This is your wilderness,” he’d say, smirkin’ at the neon-lit streets. Been thinkin’ bout this one chick, mid-20s, works downtown—let’s call her Candy, ‘cause why not? She’s got that vibe—tired eyes, fake smile, heels clickin’ like a death knell. Saw her once, leanin’ on a lamppost, smokin’—thought, “Hell, she’s a goddamn cliche.”

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If you want a girl that speaks little English ask for hana. She used to work in Australia in a prostitution house. Second option is the Menzu.

But then, disaster strikes. The fire alarm goes off! I’m like, “Seriously? In the middle of a busy day?” Everyone’s panicking, and I’m trying to keep my cool. I’m yelling, “Stay calm! It’s probably a drill!” But deep down, I’m like, “Please don’t let it be a real fire. I can’t deal with this!”

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