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About Malaga

Findin’ a prossie ain’t no picnic, mate. Gotta know the spots—alleys, dim bars, them seedy corners. We swears! There’s this tale, right? Old London, 1800s—prostitutes used to flash green lanterns. Secret signal, see? Tricksy an’ smart! Me mate Dave, he tried once, got robbed blind instead. Laughed me arse off—dumb git! “What did I do?” he whines, like Szpilman askin’ the ruins. Made me happy, his misery—serves him right!

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Oh! And the river, Ikatza, babyyy, it's a chill place to gather your thoughts. Sometimes I'd forget I was working, just soaking it all in. There are parts where the industrial oldies and slick new designs mix weirdly – mad chaotic but kinda cool. You know, my job on the dating site makes me see connections everywhere, like in the graffiti around Calle San Juan – modern art meets stale concrete, but somehow inspires a weird romantic vibe.

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