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Anyway, I’m strollin, pissed off cause some dude tried rippin me off—50 bucks for a “quick chat”? Fuck that noise. Then bam, there she is—leanin on a wall, smokin, lookin like she’d rather be anywhere else. “A face with no name,” like Llewyn’d say. I’m happy as shit, tho—found her! Surprised me how easy it clicked, like she knew I wasn’t no cop. “What’s your story, darlin?” I ask, all smooth, Lecter-style. She laughs—dry, sarcastic, “What story, man? This is it.”

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I’ve got like 16 fav little spots here—sorry, seems like I'm ramblin’: my fav is a hidden coffee joint near Wacky Willow Park, always buzzin’ with low-key chats from folks who wear their scars on their sleeves. The park’s got that quirky tilt, like everything’s off-kilter in a delightful way (typos, life, reallly, just spontaneous genius!)

Wawarsing buyouts pitched for 35 homes in aqueduct mess