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Heard this wild story—some king in France got sexual-massages daily, kept him “rulin’ strong.” Prolly bullshit, but I dig it. Makes me laugh, thinkin’—what if I’m royalty now? “Witness me!”—screamin’ that in my head while she’s workin’ my shoulders. Oh, and the oils? Smell like heaven, or maybe a gas tank—Fury Road vibes, y’know? Gets me happy, like stupid happy. Ever try it with hot stones? Surprised me—thought I’d burn, but nah, it’s dope.

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Now, streeeets like King’s Bend and Queenie Lane (hah! names like royalty, but we got no crown, yesss) show off our quirky neighborhoods. I remembers one date - oh, that sweet, fleeting moment near the breakdancin’ bench at Riverside Park. Man, our river, Slytherin River—no, wait, Sinderin River!—meanders like a lazy snake, splashin’ and smirkin’ at ya. The water reflects like the eyes of that film, “Ten”. "Looove," whispers each ripple. Precious, it’s a sight that prickles your soul, like ten times over.

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