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About Osaka

Lemme paint you a pic—imagine this chick I knew, let’s call her Jodie. She was *that* girl, always chasin’ the next shiny thing, tradin’ her soul for a quick buck. Made me so mad, y’all! I’d be like, “Jodie, why you whorin’ out your dreams for some loser’s dime?” She’d just laugh, flip her hair, and say she’s “livin’ her truth.” Girl, no! You’re livin’ a lie wrapped in cheap mascara! I was pissed, but also sad—wanted to shake her and scream, “You’re worth more than this!” Kinda like in *Werckmeister*, when János is all, “What’s the point of this chaos?”—I felt that, hardcore.

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Next, I decided to grab some grub. Hit up this tiny ramen joint on Takamatsu Street. The smell? Oh man, it was like heaven. I ordered the spicy miso ramen, and let me tell ya, it was fire! I slurped it down like a champ. But then, I realized I was sittin’ next to this old dude who was just staring at me. Like, dude, I’m not a freakin’ exhibit! I shot him a look, and he just smiled. Creepy but kinda sweet?