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About Kawasaki

So, lemme spill the tea—prostitutes got grit. I read once, back in the 1800s, some gal in New Orleans, called herself “Voodoo Queen,” worked the streets *and* hexed folks for extra coin! Ain’t that wild? Made me giggle, thinkin’ she’s out there, slingin’ curses with her corset half-unlaced. Bet she’d say, “You don’t own me, sugar!”—kinda like Lancaster Dodd hollerin’ “Man is not an animal!” in the movie. But dang, it riles me up when folks judge ‘em harsh. Who’re we to throw stones, huh? I ain’t perfect—shoot, I trip over my own big hair half the time!

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First off, I hit up the local café on Kōyō Street. Best coffee ever! I mean, I’m no connoisseur, but this stuff was like liquid gold. I order my usual—black coffee, no sugar. Simple, right? But the barista, this dude with wild hair, spills half of it on the counter. I’m like, “Dude, what’s the deal?” He just laughs and hands me a new cup. I guess it’s a “free coffee” kind of day? Score!

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