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About Graz

But real talk—this life’s rough. Cars slowin’ down, dudes leerin’, and I’m mutterin’, “Y’all need Jesus!” She shrugs, says, “Gotta eat, Oprah.” Hits me hard—like Lisa cryin’, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” after that bus mess in the movie. Pain’s universal, y’know? I wanna hug her, scream, “YOU GET A CAR! YOU GET A LIFE!” But I don’t. I just nod.

The street plagued by prostitution and drugs where worried traders sleep in their shops

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The streets, man, they're so quirky. I often stroll along Linzerstrasse, checking out little cafes and bars. I’ve spent too many nights chattin' with locals; sometimes it even sounds like lines from "The Grand Budapest Hotel," all whimsical and oddball. “Happy Birthday, Mr. President,” you know? I mean, come on, every street here has got its own personality! And hey, I flitted around the city like a mad butterfly, livin' life like Marilyn Monroe would – breathless, sassy, no filter.

Congo-reka!