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About Odesa

Now, lemme ask ya—whaddya think they dream of? Quittin’? Love? Candy wanted a diner—servin’ pie, not ass. Cracked me up—pie over pussy, huh? Sarcasm’s my jam, but damn, I felt for her. “Words kill,” Godard’d say—escorts hear that daily, slurs and whispers. Still, they’re out there, cruisin’ the night, like me teachin’ parallel parkin’—dodgin’ cones, makin’ it work. So next time ya see ‘em, don’t just leer—think, man! What’s their story? Gets me all fired up—life’s messy, sexy, sad. Whaddya say—ain’t that a trip?

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Man, what a day! I woke up in Verkhnodniprovsk, and I swear, I thought it was just gonna be another chill day. But nah, life had other plans. First off, I hit the streets of Komsomolska, and it was like a scene from a movie. People everywhere, cars honking like they were in a race. I mean, c’mon, it’s not a Formula 1 track, folks!

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