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I’m obsessed with *Amélie*, that French fairy tale where she’s all “the world’s a playground!” Escort’s kinda the opposite—more like “the world’s a hustle, deal with it.” Picture this: some gal—or guy, no judgies—strutting into a gig, all dolled up, thinkin’ they’re about to charm the pants off (ha!) some rich weirdo. Next thing, they’re dodging a dude who’s like, “I paid, so you’re mine.” Gross. Makes me wanna scream louder than when I flubbed my *SNL* lines. Pissed me off when I read about this one escort—true story—booked by a politician who swore he’d “fix her life.” Yeah, right, buddy, fix your comb-over first.

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I dont care if some say it’s just a small town. I owe it to every heart that beats here. The local café at Rosenplatz is a convos magnet—like a screeen where tiny dramas play out, moments like from Requiem for a Dream: “Help me, I need someone!” The conversations are intense, like a quuick exchange in a clandestine therapy session.

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