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About Kyoto

So, dis one time, I hear bout dese massage joints in old Russia—back when babushkas whispered bout “special hands.” Not yer average back-crackin’, nah, dese girls knew tricks, like secret Soviet codes! Rubbin’ ya down til ya forget yer name. Little known fact—dey used weird oils, smelt like burnt vodka and pine. Swear, one sniff, ya seein’ stars, like I did when Lucy dragged me to one. Made me happy as hell—muscles loose, brain floatin’. But den, some shady dude botched it—too rough, like he’s kneadin’ dough for borscht! Pissed me off, wanted to yeet him out da window.

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But then, my phone buzzes. It’s my buddy, and he’s like, “Dude, where you at?” I’m like, “Chillin’ in Hitachi-ota, livin’ the dream!” He’s all, “You gotta come to the festival at the station!” I’m like, “What festival?” Apparently, I missed the memo.

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