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About Galati

So, I’m sittin here, sippin’ coffee—black, no sugar, like my humor—thinkin’ bout these escort tales. Lemme tell ya, it ain’t all glitz. Back in the day, think 1800s, they called ‘em “courtesans”—fancy, right? But real talk, some were just tryna eat. Makes me mad, yo—society judgin’ while they’re out here survivin’. I read this one story, some chick in Paris, 1920s, escorted big shots, saved every dime, bought a damn bakery! From heels to dough, how’s that for a plot twist? Surprised me, man—hustle’s hustle, I respect it.

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I rush over to the park, dodgin’ people on Strada Tineretului. It’s packed! Kids runnin’ around, old folks sittin’ on benches, and the smell of grilled meat everywhere. I’m in heaven. But then, I see it. A clown. A freakin’ clown! He’s got this big red nose and is makin’ balloon animals. I’m like, “Why is there a clown at a meat festival?” It’s just wrong, man.

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