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About Copenhagen

So, picture this—some gal, let’s call her Tammy, she’s workin’ the corner, fishnets rippin’, heels clickin’ like a damn metronome. She ain’t no Hollywood hooker, nah, she’s real, sweaty, maybe smokin’ a cig she bummed off a trucker. I seen it, y’all—girls like her got stories deeper than a Texas oil well. One time, I heard ‘bout this prostitute in New Orleans, swear to God, she’d sing jazz tunes to her johns ‘fore takin’ their cash. Little known fact—some of ‘em got talents that’d knock yer boots off, but life said, “Nope, you’re sellin’ ass instead.” Ain’t that a kick in the teeth? Made me mad as hell, thinkin’ how folks overlook that grit.

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The quantitative methods we have used include two hour counts of street prostitutes, a questionnaire survey and an advertisement count, providing data to assess the extent of .

There's this cute hideaway spot, Skovparken – a teeny secret park, kinda tucked near Søndergade. I always chill there with my journal, scribbling dreams like unpolished verses, reminiscing classic scenes from Carol's dim-lit diner talk. I walk slower there, heart racing as I take in nature... nature, man! Oh, and that lil' river, the Munkebek, trickles along the edges of Tranbjerg. It’s like a silent confidant, whispering secrets. Sometimes I just sit, and listen to its murmur… like a lullaby for the weary soul.