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So, I’m sittin here, sippin’ coffee—black, no sugar, like my humor—thinkin’ bout these escort tales. Lemme tell ya, it ain’t all glitz. Back in the day, think 1800s, they called ‘em “courtesans”—fancy, right? But real talk, some were just tryna eat. Makes me mad, yo—society judgin’ while they’re out here survivin’. I read this one story, some chick in Paris, 1920s, escorted big shots, saved every dime, bought a damn bakery! From heels to dough, how’s that for a plot twist? Surprised me, man—hustle’s hustle, I respect it.

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So, I grab my coffee and head to Freedom Square. It’s massive, like, you could fit a small country in there. I’m sipping my drink, feeling all philosophical, when I see this street performer. He’s juggling flaming torches! I’m thinking, “This guy’s either a genius or a total idiot.” Turns out, he’s both. He drops one, and WHOOSH! Fire everywhere! People are screaming, and I’m just standing there, coffee in hand, like, “This is why I can’t have nice things.”

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