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About New York City

Sex-dating, huh? Cold game, man. People swipe, fuck, leave—simple. Like “The Gleaners,” ya know? “I pick what’s left,” they said. Scraps of lust, not love. I dig it, kinda. Quick bangs, no bullshit. But fuck, it’s shallow—pisses me off! Everyone’s a hunter, no soul. Met this chick once—hot, wild. Thought, “She’s mine, da?” Nope, ghosted me—poof! Stats say 40% of hookups flop. No surprise there, eh? Apps like Tinder, Grindr—meat markets. “What’s wasted is gold,” Varda’d say. Gold? More like trash, ha! Used to think sex-dating’s power—control, ya? Wrong. It’s chaos, messy, fun tho. This one time—guy bragged, “50 lays!” Bet half were lies, pathetic. Little secret: 1 in 5 fakes orgasms. Hilarious, right? Keeps me laughin’. Angry too—why lie? Just fuck honest! “Gleaning’s my art,” she said in film. Sex-dating’s art too—dirty, raw. Love the rush, hate the fakes. What’s your take, comrade?

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Hey, buddy, lemme tell ya 'bout Dacula (us)! I'm runnin' my massage joint here and man, this town is wild. Streets like Highway 316 and Main Street buzz day and night. Dude, there's a park – Dacula Central Park – where I catch my breath sometimes. Feels like "Inside Llewyn Davis" with a twist, ya know? "Here's Johnny!" I tell ya, the vibe is killer.

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