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About Kobe

Man, lemme tell ya bout this erotic-massage shit, motherfucker! I’m out here, Samuel L. Jackson style, wiring up radios n shit, hands deep in circuits, when I stumble on this wild-ass world of sensual rubdowns. Ain’t no regular massage, nah, this shit’s next level—slippery, steamy, got ya boy thinkin, “Just keep swimmin,” like Dory, ya feel me? I’m fuckin intense bout it, cause it’s dope as hell but sneaky too—people don’t talk bout it loud, like it’s some secret fish code from “Finding Nemo.”

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First off, I grabbed some breakfast at this tiny café on Kōen-dōri. The coffee? Ugh, life-changing. I swear, I could’ve bathed in it. And the toast? Perfectly crispy. But then, bam! My phone buzzes. My boss wants me to drop everything for a last-minute research meeting. Like, really? Can’t a person enjoy their morning?

Afghan woman activist released after arrest in January