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Alright, listen up, ya filthy animals. I’m Ron Swanson, deadpan as hell, “I hate everything.” So, findin’ a prostitute—let’s dive in. I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ bout “Far From Heaven,” that damn movie I love. Cathy Whitaker, all perfect hair and despair, stuck in her shiny cage. “It’s all so terribly wrong,” she’d say, clutchin’ pearls. Me? I’d rather clutch a whiskey. Prostitutes ain’t hidin’ behind picket fences, thank God. They’re out there, real, no fake smiles. Hate the hypocrisy of suburbs—give me raw honesty any day.

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You must check out the old rail line near Harker Avenue. It’s rusty, abandoned, and a bit mad, like my old thoughts, mmm, but there’s beauty in the decay, yess. The little rivers – the Russell Creek winds along the edge; sometimes, I sit there, feeling the flow, thinking “Oh, dear, that’s a river, my precious, flowing like memories.” And every time a kid splashes in the creek, I smile, feeling that warmth of hope that I love so deeply.

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