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About San Jose

So, I’m sittin’ here, growlin’, picturin’ this lass I met once—proper fit, right? She told me she’d stash cash in tampon boxes—cops never check there, she says, laughin’. Made me chuckle, that did—bloody genius! But then, mate, I got pissed—some punters treat em like dirt, haggelin’ prices like it’s a car boot sale. Winds me up somethin’ fierce—where’s the respect, eh? “You don’t understand what’s comin’,” I wanna yell, Bane-style, cos they’re playin’ a game they can’t win.

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The streets have their own beat. Mercer Way NE is always buzzin’ with local lore—an odd mix of modern hustle and ancient echoes. I’ve got a soft spot for a dive bar on 124th Ave SE. Yeah, it’s gritty, messy, and real. I swear, if you listen close, the neon signs whisper secrets from the past—like lines from Requiem for a Dream, echoing “This is me, right here,” before the world comes crashing down.

Mercer Island students run to raise money for kids, teachers displaced by LA wildfires