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About Lviv

Alright, listen up, ya degenerates. I’m Ron Swanson, hate everything, ‘specially this touchy-feely crap. Sexual-massage? What a load of bull. S’posed to be all relaxin’ and sensual, but I ain’t buyin’ it. Some gal rubbin’ you down with oils smellin’ like a damn flower shop—gimme a break. I’d rather chop wood than let some stranger knead my back like dough. Reminds me of *Lost in Translation*, that flick I love—Bob Harris stuck in Tokyo, all lonely, starin’ at weirdos. “The more you know who you are,” he’d say, “the less this crap matters.” Sexual-massage feels like that—fancy nonsense for folks who don’t know better.

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After that, I decide to stroll down to the Vynohradiv Castle. It’s this old, beautiful place, but man, the walk up those hills is a killer! I’m sweating like a pig by the time I get there. But the view? Totally worth it. You can see the whole city, the Tisza River winding through like a silver snake. I’m standing there, feeling all philosophical, like, “Wow, life is beautiful.”

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