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Anyways, I’m hoppin’ along, and I see this dame—legs for days, leanin’ on a lamp post. “You’re my refuge,” I mutter, like Benigno talkin’ to his coma gal in the flick. Makes me chuckle, ‘cause it’s nuts! I ain’t mad tho—takes guts to stand there, dodgin’ cops and creeps. What pisses me off? Them jerks who haggle like it’s a flea market. Pay up or bounce, ya cheapskates! Made me happy seein’ her smirk tho—girl knew how to play ‘em.

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You know what really warms me cockles? The secret garden behind 22nd Ave—nobody talks 'bout it, but it's a mystical chill-out spot for lost souls. They say it’s cursed, but I say it's blessed, much like the unpredictable, emo nature of our days. And here’s a fun one: sometimes, on windy nights, ye can practically hear echoes of laughter from Crop circles of conversations past—just like the disjointed memories of a world gone mad in that film.

This S.F. neighborhood has it all, including home prices most of us can’t afford