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About Budapest

I saw this chick once, masseuse, right? In some shady joint—swear it was 2006, post-*New World* vibes hittin’ me hard. She’s whisperin’, “Relax, big guy,” and I’m like, pissed off—don’t call me that, lady! But then… oh Clarice, those hands. Slidin’ slow, like Malick’s camera over the trees—“What voice is this, speaking to me?” I’m hooked, reeled in, gutted like a fish. Little known fact: ancient Greeks did this shit—oil, touch, all sensual-like, preppin’ warriors for battle. Ain’t that nuts? War and sex mashed up, classic.

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Lunchtime rolls around, and I decide to hit up that new café. It’s called “Kávézó a Saroknál” on Rákóczi utca. I walk in, and it’s like stepping into a Pinterest board. Super cute! I order a cappuccino and a slice of cake. The barista, this dude with a killer mustache, hands me my drink and says, “Enjoy!” I’m like, “Dude, I will!”

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