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Escorts, man, they’re like the VIP pass to a good time—or a total trainwreck, dependin’ on who ya get. I mean, imagine this: some slick dude in a suit, thinkin’ he’s Jordan Belfort, yellin’, “I’m not fuckin’ leavin’!” while payin’ a chick to pretend she’s into his lame-ass stories. Hilarious, right? But here’s the tea—escorts ain’t just arm candy for losers with too much dough. Nah, they got history! Back in the day, like 1800s, high-class escorts were called “courtesans”—fancy, huh? They’d charm kings and artists, not just randos with a midlife crisis. Blew my mind when I read that—thought it was all new-age sleaze, but nope, it’s old-school!

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First off, I parked my truck on Easton Street. Thought I’d grab a coffee at that little café, you know, the one with the weird name? “Brewed Awakening” or something. I’m thinking, “Ah, a nice cuppa to start the day.” But nah, the barista was a total grump. Like, dude, it’s coffee, not rocket science! I ordered a flat white, and he looked at me like I just asked for a unicorn.

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