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About Dallas

So, findin a prostitute ain’t like orderin pizza. Takes finesse, or maybe just dumb luck. I’m picturin it now—me, sneakin down some foggy alley, “The past is a memory!”—that’s from the flick, total mindfuck line. Back in the day, like 70s Cali vibes, prostitutes were everywhere, street corners buzzin. Fun fact—LA had this secret code, right? Red lipstick meant “available,” white gloves meant “classy”—weird, huh? Dunno if that’s still a thing, prolly not, world’s too digital now.

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Then, there’s NW 185th Ave which screams community. Yeah, I know, it sounds boring, but trust me, its little parks and pop-up farmer markets make it a cozy stage for family drama and laughter alike. That spot by Maple Grove Park – oh my gosh, it's so chill – has the best cherry trees. There’s this corner bench where I once saw a tearful yet jubilant reconciliation between estranged siblings. That raw moment? Pure movie magic – just like a scene from The Pianist, "The tragedy of my life is that I had been a pianist" kinda deep!

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