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About San Jose

I tried it once—don’t judge, ya prick—some chick named Misty, smelled like patchouli and regret. Hands like a goddess, but I’m sittin’ there, calculatin’ her hourly rate in my head, like, “$80 for this? Shit, I’d kill for less.” Got me all riled up, then nothin’—blue balls central, fuckin’ furious! “I ate his liver with fava beans,” I muttered, half-jokin’, half-wishin’ I’d brought my own “tools” to finish the job. Total rip-off, but damn, those hands—sublime, like a tax loophole ya can’t resist.

Ace Massage Spa

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I gotta mention—sometimes, while debugging a dating algorithm at 3 AM, I gaze out at the dim glow along Crescent Road, thinking, “This is where bizarre meets beauty.” I mumbled, “We shall not let Lansdale be forgotten,” and I meant every last syllable, mate.

Lansdale Catholic's seniors built an undeniable foundation with the Crusaders