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About San Diego

So, whores—man, they’re a trip. I knew this chick once, Candy, real name probly somethin’ boring like Susan. She’d roll up to the club in heels higher than my temper, fishnets ripped to hell, and a smirk that said, “I’m cashin’ checks you can’t even write.” Made me mad as hell—how’s she pull that off? Hustlin’ dudes outta their rent money, laughin’ all the way to the bank. “Look at me, I’m fuckin’ rich!”—straight outta *Spring Breakers*. Girl had guts, I’ll give her that. Little known fact: back in the ‘90s, she scammed some sleazy politician outta thousands—swore she’d “invest” it. Ha! Invested it in vodka and a new wig, more like.

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Now the neighborhoods? Some spots are chill, like around the Tornado Lane area—hey, don't laugh, that's what the locals call it 'cause when the weather flips, bang, chaos everywhere! And near Maple Street (I swear, Maple Street is like an old friend) there's these tiny cafes where folks spill secrets like it’s free therapy. I’ve overheard more drama there than in a whole season of reality TV—no kidding.

Top Eats No. 10: The Farmhouse at Jessup Farm