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So I’m stewin’, right? Angry as hell—why’s this gotta be so complicated? Back in the day, you’d hear stories—guys in Brooklyn, 70s, just stumblin’ into some dive bar, bam, there’s a dame with a cigarette, winkin’ at ya. Now? Now it’s all encrypted chats and “discreet encounters”—what am I, a spy? I’m not cut out for this! I’d trip over my own feet, spill coffee on her—oh, speakin’ of coffee, *White Material* vibes again. “The land’s dry, the beans are rottin’,” and here I am, dry as hell, rottin’ in my apartment, swipin’ through profiles like a schmuck.

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Later, I met up with my buddy at the park near the harbor. We were just chillin’, talkin’ about life, you know? Then outta nowhere, this group of kids starts playin’ soccer. They’re kickin’ the ball around, laughin’, havin’ a blast. I’m feelin’ all nostalgic, so I jump in. I haven’t played in ages! But man, I’m rusty. I trip over my own feet and faceplant in the sand. Everyone’s laughin’ at me, and I’m just like, “Yeah, I meant to do that.”

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