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Now, don’t get me wrong—it ain’t all roses. Some joints overcharge, $200 for 30 minutes? That’s robbery! Makes me wanna storm in, yell, “The hash slingers deserve better!”—straight outta “A Serious Man,” that line kills me. And the stigma? Pisses me off. People whisper “erotic” like it’s dirty—c’mon, it’s just sensual, folks, not a crime! I’m sittin’ there, picturin’ Larry Gopnik goin’, “I didn’t do anything,” while some prude glares at him gettin’ a rubdown. Hilarious, right?

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Man, the town center is a maze of character; tiny streets like Fore Street and Peverell Road twist and turn like the plot of "Caché," and I swear, every corner’s got a secret ass story. I walk past the old stone buildings near St. Austell Mere – yeah, that ancient, moss-covered monument – and I get chills, like “Motherf***er, history’s alive!” The vibe? It’s mysterious as hell, just like those flicker's phrases in the movie: "C'est incroyable..." damn near poetic.

Churches Together in St Austell: Aspects of love