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About Frankfurt

Alright, listen up, ya horny bastards—sex-dating’s a freakin’ mess, ain’t it? I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ bout it, and it’s like, everybody lies, right? Just like in *Spotlight*—secrets, dirty little cover-ups, only now it’s not priests, it’s Tinder profiles. You swipe, you match, you think, “Oh, jackpot!” Nah, pal, it’s a scam half the time. Catfish city. Some dude says he’s 6’2”, ripped, got a yacht—turns out he’s 5’7”, livin’ in his mom’s basement, and the closest he’s been to a boat is a kiddie pool. “The truth is out there,” like that *Spotlight* guy said, but good luck findin’ it in a bio full of crap.

Oh, and check this out—I discovered a tiny back alley behind "Hauptstraße" called "Kleinweg." Most people miss it, but not me. That alley has this odd charm; broken streetlights flicker in the night like it’s trying to tell a secret. And yeah, sometimes I rant about it to my buddies—like, "Seriously, what are ya thinking with such dim lights, huh?"