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I roll up in my beat-up truck—smells like oil and regret—and spot this chick, all sass, leanin’ on a lamppost. “Hey, darlin’, what’s the deal?” I rasp, tryin’ not to sound like a total creep. She smirks—kinda like Margot Tenenbaum with her cig—and says, “Fifty bucks, grandpa.” Fifty?! I choke—“That’s half my rent!”—but she don’t care. She’s got that “I’m adopted” vibe, y’know, from the movie? Tough as nails, but somethin’ sad underneath.

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Down at Oakwood Park, which, trust me, is a secret gem, there’s these mighty old oaks – trees older than the fella in the movie sayin’, "It's all a matter of patience." I get so dang relaxed sittin’ there, sometimes even feelin’ like Dr. Phil, askin’ “How’s that workin’ for ya?” to every critter passin’ by. I swear, my mind gets all tangled up in the soft rustlin’ leaves, and man, mind you, that’s when ideas pop like corn!

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