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About Chicago

So, picture this – I’m cruisin’ Miami, neon lights flashin’, lookin’ for some action. Not just any chick, nah, I’m talkin’ pros, the real deal. You don’t just stumble on ‘em, nah, it’s a game. Back in the day, they’d hang by the docks – little known fact, bro – sailors rollin’ in, horny as fuck, droppin’ cash. Now? Shit’s digital, apps and ads, but some still old-school it, street corners, smokin’ cigs, givin’ you that look. “I glean therefore I am,” like Varda says – they’re out there, existin’, survivin’.

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I guess what I’m saying is, Whitefish is imperfect yet beautifully relentless – like life. It’s a place where you can scream hiccups of rage, whisper the secrets of a wounded heart, and even find solace on cold winter nights, right after a session that made you question this whole charade called existence.

It’s your school too