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So anyway, I’m picturin’ it—me, neurotic as hell, sweatin’ bullets, tryna find a prostitute. Maybe I’d hit up the web—X posts, sketchy links, the works. “Who’s got the goods?” I’d mutter, scrollin’ like a maniac. Prostitutes these days, they’re all over—some got ads slicker than a car salesman! Makes me laugh, like, “Pretty, pretty good hustle!” But then I’d get paranoid—cops? Scams? “I’m gonna die!” I’d yelp, channelin’ Malik’s prison panic. “The ghosts are comin’!”—another “A Prophet” gem. I’d be jumpin’ at shadows, swearin’ the Yakuza’s tailin’ me.

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I remember one time, after a zany massage, I was sprawled on a bench in the back of Redwood Rd. A dude stumbled by, muttering: "4 months, 3 weeks, and 2 days... yikes!" I was like, "Yeah, baby, life ain't perfect." And man, that hit home. That movie used to make my head spin, you know? It’s intense, twisted like my passion for pure relaxation.

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