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About Larissa

So, I tried it once, this underground joint in Queens. Little known fact: back in the ‘70s, sexual-massage parlors popped up everywhere—shady but classy! This chick, she’s rubbin’ my shoulders, and I’m thinkin’, “Oh honey, I’m in heaven!” Then—get this—she uses warm stones! I’m like, “What’s this witchcraft?!” Made me happy as a clam, swear it. But then, ugh, the oil’s drippin’—16 typos worth of mess—on my fave leopard skirt! I’m screamin’, “My skirt, my skirt!” Total buzzkill, made me so mad I coulda punched a wall.

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Man, what a day! Seriously, I’m still buzzing from it. So, I wake up in Nea-Makri, right? The sun’s blasting through my window like it’s trying to wake the dead. I roll outta bed, grab a quick coffee from that little joint on Marathonos Street. You know the one? The barista there is a legend. Always has a smile, even when it’s 6 AM and the world’s still asleep.

Scorched Ruins and Soot-Covered Lives: The Aftermath of East Attica’ Devastating Fire