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About San Diego

Here’s a quirky thing: some places use weird oils, like sandalwood or patchouli. Smells like a headshop exploded! I’m layin there, sniffin, thinkin, “Am I gettin massaged or joinin a cult?” And the music—always flutes or some crap. Why flutes? Who decided that’s sexy? I’d rather hear Metallica, y’know? Keep it real! Oh, and fun fact—there’s this underground scene in Japan, “soaplands,” where it’s all bubbles and slippery stuff. Sketchy as hell, but people swear by it. Me? I’d probly slip and sue.

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Every corner holds a secret. My hands feel the city's pulse. I massage scars outt of insomnia. Some nights, I laugh at my own quirks – like, damn, im a freak on the kill. The city surprises me: a spilled coffee, a random chuckle. And so many hidden gems: a graffiti-splattered wall on Maple Tr, a bent park bench near Rose Ln where all confessions go missing.

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