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So, findin’ a prostitute—where do ya start? Back in the day, you’d cruise the shady corners—42nd Street, pre-Giuliani mess. Now? It’s all digital, baby—apps, sites, boom! You’re scrollin’, thinkin’, “Who’s real, who’s a cop?” Gets my blood boilin’—the nerve of these scammers! Fake pics, catfishin’—makes me wanna scream, “Show me the truth!” like Isabelle in the jungle, machete in hand.

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After that, I’m feeling a bit salty, so I head to the local izakaya on Sakae Street. I order some yakitori, and let me tell you, it was fire! I’m munching away, and this old guy next to me starts chatting. He’s telling me about the Yokote Kamakura Festival. Apparently, they build these giant snow huts. Sounds epic! I’m like, “Dude, I gotta see that!” But then he starts talking about how cold it gets in winter. I’m like, “Nah, I’m good. I’ll stick to summer, thanks.”

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