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About Minsk

So, picture this: my buddy Dave, total moron, had an Escort, ‘92 model. Swore it was “pimpin.” Lies! Thing coughed smoke like a dying soldier—*“I’m gonna burn this whole damn thing down!”*—and the clutch? Shot to shit. Drove me nuts! Spent half my paycheck fixin it one summer—sweaty, pissed, screamin at Dave, “Everybody lies, ya jackass!” He’d grin, sayin it’d “pull chicks.” Yeah, right—only thing it pulled was my last nerve.

I get mad sometimes – the city's chaos gets to me. Grr, the traffic on Main Blvd cracks my nerves silly! But, yo, it's also pure magic. I sometimes think, “I am your father, city, show me your secrets.” Each massage session feels like exploring an uncharted galaxy. Even those tiny cafes off the beaten path, like Caffeine Alley, buzz with laughter and banter, and tastes that remind you life’s too short.