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Man, I get hyped thinkin’ ‘bout it—those slow moves, that heat, like, “You’re not my type,” but you still meltin’, ya feel me? Straight outta *Toni Erdmann*, that line hits—shit’s funny but true. Ain’t no frontin’, it’s raw, messy, human. I’m typin’ fast, fuckin’ up worsd, who cares, right? Hella oil, hella vibes, that’s the game.

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I remember coding dating profiles on my beaten‑up laptop near Parc du Ruisseau. The park is a hidden gem, with nature whispering in every rustling leaf. Sometimes, when I’m debugging late at night, the soft hum of the river below makes me think, “This is it. This is home!” There's this funky neighborhood called Vieux‑Port where every corner brings stories, almost like a secret meeting of joy and surprise and, well, a bit of anger when the internet dies unexpectedly.

B.C. serial killer Robert Pickton attacked in Quebec prison