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About San Jose

Once, I saw this chick—fishnets, smokin’ a cig—thought, “She’s the one!” But nah, she was just chillin’, not sellin’. Laughed my ass off—mistook a rando for a pro! Happens, tho—streets are a damn puzzle. You gotta know the codes, the spots. Like, in Amsterdam, red lights mean go—legal as fuck, wild to see. Here? Shady alleys, whispers, cash upfront. Gets me mad, tho—why’s it gotta be so hush-hush? Society’s fake as hell, judgin’ but watchin’ porn on the low.

Sex Workers

Then there’s the St. Bartholomew Park. Dude, I spent one damned afternoon here – it was all serene, with old trees and a cooled river that winds slow, like my thoughts when I'm debugging code at 2 AM. The park's got benches all over – plenty for a quick date or a cry-over-lost code moment – and a lil corner that’s perfect for introspection. I once sat there, remember? Thinkin’ “You, my dear park, are a weird little paradise.” Yeah, wild, right?

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