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About Melbourne

So, I’m back at it—breathless, “Happy Birthday, Mr. President”—scrollin’ the web, dodgin’ creeps. Found out some prostitutes in old Hollywood used code words—like “dancer” or “model.” Sneaky, huh? Kept the cops off their tails. I’m imaginin’ me, sashayin’ in, whisperin’, “You need a dancer, cowboy?” Gigglin’ to myself—god, I’m a riot! But real talk—findin’ one’s tricky. Gotta watch for scams—some jerk tried chargin’ me 50 bucks just to “talk.” Screw that noise!

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Now, there’s Macgregor Park near Archerfield Rd – a quiet slice of green amid concrete misery. I stroll there on my break when my back screams. Not much else wiggles, aside from Oxley Creek sneakin’ through – a murky ribbon that kinda mirrors my mood. Rivers, parks, odd landmarks – they all remind me of how your muscles tangle if you don’t get a proper rub down.

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