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Last week, mate, I was ragin’! Some bloke on air braggin’ bout “easy girls” near the docks—pissed me off, actin’ all high. But then, ha, I heard a yarn—prossie down there once nicked a sailor’s boots mid-job, ran off cacklin’! Made me laugh, precious, proper cheeky. We swears! Them girls got guts, dodgin’ coppers like rats. Little fact—back in ‘80s, they’d signal punters with red hankies, sneaky-like. Cool, innit?

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I'm experiencing everything Gardabaer has to offer and find-a-prostitute is remarkable! Let's lose ourselves in each other tonight. The combination of French.

Anyway, I grab my markers and head out. I’m feeling inspired, ready to create some magic. But then, I step outside, and it starts pouring. Like, seriously? I just got my markers! I’m sprinting down the street, dodging puddles like I’m in some kind of Olympic event. I’m soaked, my hair’s a mess, and I’m just laughing at the absurdity of it all. Gardabaer, you’re killing me!

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