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What gets me goat, though? Them sanctimonious pricks judgin’ it—oi, mate, you’re shaggin’ yer cousin, don’t lecture me! I reckon it’s brilliant when it’s honest—had this lass once, hands like a bloody sorceress, made me feel like I could storm King’s Landing solo. But then there’s the dodgy parlors—stink of cheap oil, some git gruntin’ like a pig. Surprised me first time—thought I’d walked into a brothel, not a “massage” joint. Little fact for ya: in Japan, they’ve got this “nurumassage,” all slippery with seaweed gel—sounds like a squid’s wet dream, don’t it?

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But wait, the day’s not over! I get a text from my friend about that seafood place. They’re having a special tonight. I’m like, “Why not?” I rush over, and it’s packed. I squeeze in, and the food? OMG. I’m in heaven. The fish is fresh, the flavors are popping. I’m practically dancing in my seat.

Away From Old Architecture: What Corbu Really Meant