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About Los Angeles

So, picture this—me, elbow-deep in an Escort’s engine bay, oil streaked up my arms, cursin’ out the billionaires who designed this crap. That 1.9-liter four-banger? Gutless! Barely 90 horsepower, sputters like a tired old dog. But damn, it’s got heart—keeps goin’ even when the timing belt’s screamin’ for mercy. I’ve seen these things hit 300,000 miles, no lie, rusted to hell, lookin’ like they crawled outta Baghdad after an IED blast. “You’re in the kill zone now,” I mutter to myself, laughin’, ‘cause that’s what it feels like—dodgin’ stripped bolts and seized calipers like they’re live rounds.

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Man, the parks here… Okay, I gotta admit, Creekside Park ain't half bad. It's got a lovely little pond – where ducks sometimes outsmart the local pigeons – and a weird old gazebo that’s been there since who-knows-when. I once met an ex on a dating site there that swore this place was “a slice of raw, unbridled beauty” – I didn’t buy it, but hey. And then there’s the mighty Pike River. It snakes through town like a lazy beast, mirroring every bit of urban decay and accidental charm.

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