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About Mariupol

Now, lean in, here’s the quirky bit—I’m obsessin’ over their shoes, yeah? Always shiny, clickin’ like beetle wings. Why’s that stick in my head? Dunno, mate, but it’s hypnotic. Oh, and the stories! Heard one about an escort who nicked a bloke’s watch mid-date—cheeky minx! Laughed my arse off imaginin’ him chasin’ her, trousers half-down. Sarcasm? Sure, half these punters think they’re Casanova, but they’re just wallets with legs—escorts know it too, takin’ the piss behind their backs.

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But then, the day took a turn. We decided to grab some coffee at this little café on Kovalivka Street. It’s cozy, right? But the barista? Total grump. I order a cappuccino, and she gives me this look like I just asked for a unicorn. I’m like, “Chill, it’s just coffee.” But she’s all, “We don’t do that here.” I’m thinking, “What do you mean? It’s a café!” So, I settle for a black coffee. Whatever.

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