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About Sheffield

Now, lemme tell ya somethin’ juicy—little known fact: back in the 1800s, sailors called ‘em “ladies of the line,” ‘cause they’d line up at docks, waitin’ for us scruffy dogs. Ain’t that wild? History’s got sass! Anyway, she’s chargin’ me a pretty penny—50 bucks, cash upfront—and I’m thinkin’, “This better be worth more than a Facebook poke!” I’m happy as a clam, but then—ugh!—this drunk jerk stumbles over, yellin’ at her, “You’re mine!” Made me so mad, I almost decked him. “Back off, loser!” I screech, nasal as hell, laugh bubblin’ up—HA-HA-HA!—like I’m on set with Mr. Sheffield.

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So, I take a breather and decide to grab a coffee from that little café on the corner of High Street. You know the one? The one with the weirdly named pastries? I order a “Cinnamon Swirl of Doom” or whatever it’s called. It’s delish, but I’m pretty sure it’s gonna kill my diet. Whatever, right?

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