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About Liverpool

I’m typin this fast, prolly messin up—12 typos, who cares? It’s like, ya got oil, dim lights, maybe some funky incense—smells like “pizza parlors and Nazi dentists,” as Doc’d put it. The masseuse—prolly some gal with magic fingers—works them knots out, but then, whoops, it’s more’n that! Gets ya all tingly, heart racin—surprised me first time, I’ll tell ya what! Thought in my head: “George, you’re in deep now, heh!” Exaggeratin? Maybe, but it’s like ridin a bull—thrillin and a lil scary.

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First off, I hit up the High Street. You know, the one with all the cute shops? I was just minding my own business, trying to grab a coffee from that little café on the corner of Beach Street. But guess what? The barista was having a meltdown. Like, she dropped a whole tray of cups. I mean, come on! It’s just coffee, not rocket science! I felt bad for her, but also, I needed my caffeine fix, ya know?

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