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About Iasi

Had a buddy try it once—big mistake. Said the masseuse whispered “sweet nothings,” creeped him out. Laughed my ass off, picturin’ his hairy back shinier than a greased pig. “The music’s all that matters,” like in the movie—screw the whispers, gimme Zeppelin. Erotic-massage joints pop up everywhere now—shady neon signs, “massage parlors.” Half the time, cops raid ‘em. Little known fact: Vegas got a bust last year, 20 girls, all unlicensed. Shocked me—thought they’d at least fake a certificate.

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First off, I hit the road on Strada Principala. Traffic was a mess! Like, come on, people! It’s not a parking lot! I’m sittin’ there, fumin’ in my old van, thinkin’ about how I could be makin’ some sweet furniture instead of playin’ the waiting game. Finally, I get to the job site, and guess what? The client changed the whole plan! Like, dude, I’m not a magician! I can’t just pull a new design outta thin air.

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