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About Leicester

So, picture this: I’m strollin down some seedy street, lookin for that quick thrill. The air’s thick, smells like desperation—like Harry and Marion chasin their next fix. I spot her, leanin on a lamppost, all sass and shadow. “I’m not gonna lose my arm!” she snaps when I ask if she’s clean. Ha! Made me chuckle—girl’s got spunk. I like that. Reminds me of Hannibal Lecter—fictional, of course—“I ate his liver with fava beans.” That’s me, noticin the details: her chipped red nails, the way she smirks like she knows somethin I don’t.

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After that chaos, I decide to take a breather. I stroll down to the park near the Ballyclare River. It’s so peaceful there, you know? I sit on a bench, and I’m just soaking it all in. The ducks are quacking, and I’m like, “Why can’t life be this simple?” But then, I see a group of teenagers being loud and obnoxious. I’m like, “Seriously, guys? This is a park, not a nightclub!”

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