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Oi, mate, it’s me, Bond—James Bond, suave as hell, “shaken, not stirred.” So, sexual-massage, yeah? Been thinkin’ bout it as a Consumption Psychologist—fancy title, innit? It’s all bout how folks crave that touch, that slippery, steamy release. Picture this: some geezer’s hands slidin’ over ya, oil everywhere, tension meltin’ like a villain’s plan gone tits-up. Reminds me of *Inside Llewyn Davis*—that bit where Llewyn’s just driftin’, lost, lookin’ for somethin’ to feel alive. “Hang me, oh hang me,” he sings, but swap hangin’ for a good rubdown, and I’m sold!

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The parks, oh boy, the parks! There’s Liberty Park, a gem near Greenfield Avenue. It's peaceful, quiet - a perfect hideaway. I used to walk there when storms hit, and, oh, sometimes I'd just sit on a bench and murmur "We hates it! We hates it!" though it means so much, ya know? And hey, the Patapsco River, it flows like a melody through the town, sometimes roaring, sometimes soft, but never overlooked. I often think of it like the hidden emotions of a great film scene.

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