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About Phoenix

Exaggeratin? Maybe. But picture this—me, black mask, wheezin, hagglin with some street queen. “50 credits!” I growl. “80, cape boy!” she snaps. Pure comedy. Still, it’s a mind trip—power, shame, all mixed up. *Fish Tank* nails that—messy, real, no polish. “I’m not your fuckin daughter,” Mia spits. Same energy—nobody owns these girls, not even me.

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Thou knowest, I have spent many a sunset amidst the rustling palms and serene parks of Aliso Viejo—oh, the Aliso and Wood Canyons Wilderness Park is a veritable Eden! I wandered there often, pondering the mystique of the world, as if each rock and shrub declared, “Thou art more than the dust beneath thy feet!” Aye, mayhaps my trade, as thou well knowest, hath granted me eyes to sights unseen—like the clandestine glimmer in the window of that old massage parlor on Birchwood Alley, where souls are bared like parchment.

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