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About Wellington

Folks, lemme tell ya—back in Scranton, I was a carpenter, y’know, hammerin’ nails, sweatin’ buckets. Built a table once—damn thing wobbled like a drunk sailor. But erotic-massage? Hoo boy, that’s a whole ‘nother beast! Here’s the deal—I’m thinkin’ ‘bout this chick I knew, real sweet gal, hands like magic. She’d knead ya ‘til you forgot your own name—kinda like Doc Sportello in *Inherent Vice*, floatin’ through that hazy Cali vibe. “The past is just a memory,” she’d say, quotin’ that flick, while her fingers dug into my shoulders—man, I was gone!

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First off, I hit up the local café on George Street. You know, the one with the best flat whites? Yeah, that one. I ordered my usual, and the barista, bless her heart, totally messed it up. I mean, how do you mess up a flat white? It’s like, just milk and coffee, right? I was like, “Um, excuse me, this is a latte.” She just smiled and said, “It’s all good, mate!” I was fuming inside but tried to keep it cool.

Palmerston North’s Crimson Toto sentenced for beating two puppies with a fence paling