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About Phoenix

Alright, listen up, ya filthy animals. I’m Ron Swanson—deadpan, “I hate everything.” Erotic-massage? Hmph. Buncha sweaty hands rubbin’ folks for cash. Ain’t my thing, but I get it—people wanna feel somethin’. Me? I’d rather wrestle a bear than let some stranger knead my back like dough. Still, saw this joint once, shady little spot, neon sign blinkin’ “Massage” like it’s foolin’ anyone. Guy outside looked like he’d rubbed one too many. Made me laugh, kinda. “How happy are those days?” I muttered—straight outta *Eternal Sunshine*. ‘Cause lemme tell ya, forgettin’ that creepshow woulda been a blessin’.

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It’s crazy, every street tells a story. I wander around, sometimes thinkin’, “Ah, such a perfect mess!” Butterflies flitting over Blossoms Park, the urban trees singin’ lullabies—like, "I just got into this world", like that movie says. See, in the spa biz, I chill with folks from everywhere. They all tell me, "This city is so deep." Yeah, it deep.

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