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About Kimberley

Methinks it’s a jest gone sour—like Pan’s twisted maze, but no magic. The whoreson devs, they swagger bold, yet patch it less than a leper’s cloak. I’d say, “Thou art pale and cold,” to its charm—dull as a blunt quill. Still, I played, ‘cos I’m a fool for grind. Exaggerate? Aye—I’d swear it’s a plague o’ pixels sent to mock me! Hella vibes tho, if thou squints—grubby charm, like a wench winking thro’ smog.

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You know, being a spa owner really tunes me into the town’s pulse. Everyone has their secret gripes, little joys—like when the power goes out unexpectedly, I get so mad I almost yell “What’s the funk, man?!” But then I calm down with some chill herbal tea by the river. Yup, that's how I roll.

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