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Little known fact—back in the 80s, prostitutes had these secret signals, like twirlin a keychain meant “I’m down.” Wild, right? History’s got tea! Makes me happy knowin they been bossin it forever. I’m out here, confident as fuck, yellin, “It’s bad bitch o’clock!”—spot this queen in fishnets, smokin a cig. She’s got that “two minutes, that’s it” energy from the movie. I’m like, “Yass, you’re my Gabita, let’s roll!”

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The local park, Gotha Park, smack-dab in the center, is my go-to. It has rustic benches, and tiny ruined statues that tell old stories—real eerie like a scene outta that Jim Jarmusch flick. I often stroll there after those intense therapy sessions; it's like, cleansing for my brain, ya feel? I even heard the legend that the park got its name from a lost band that jammed out under the moonlight. Crikey, that’s kinda rad.

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