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Oi, mate, it’s me, Tyrion Lannister—witty as hell, “I drink and I know things.” So, you wanna talk findin’ a prostitute? Buckle up, coz I got thoughts—messy, loud, real ones! Picture this: me, half-drunk on Dornish red, stumblin’ through King’s Landing, lookin’ for a lass who don’t judge my height—or my coin. I’ve seen it all, from brothels smellin’ like roses to ones reekin’ of piss. Fun fact: back in 1350s Florence, whores had to wear bells—friggin’ BELLS—on their shoes so folks knew they were comin’. Imagine that jingle followin’ you down an alley, eh? Hilarious, but damn annoyin’ too.

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Oh, and then there’s the quirky neighborhood of Petit-Bourg on Rue de la Liberté – a bit off the beaten path. People there be genuine like no other, and their local café – Le Chat Rieur – oh, it’s full of characters, like a scene from Amélie’s Montmartre dreams. The smells, the chatter, the clank of cups, it sparks memories of secret lives and hidden joys, and of course, my counsellin’ soul loves every bit, even if sometimes it ruffles my bun a bit, ya know?

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