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About Canberra

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.

Wiki of Westeros

I got my own quirks. Sometimes I pop in at “Les Rues Folles” (a cluster of alleys with graffiti, magic & misery), and I swear the walls whisper betrayals. Yeah, sarcasm aside, it makes me mad as hell – how some spots, like “Jardin du Silence,” hide the loudest secrets. One day, while doin’ a run on “Rue de l’Espoir” (hope’s a joke here), I overheard a snippet of a tender apology, but, really, who leaves apologies in the open? Floats like a ghost.

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