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About Surabaya

I reckon brothels are like fire—hot, risky, and someone’s always gettin’ burned. Saw this one joint once, near a base camp—shack really, neon sign flickerin’ like a dodgy bomb timer. Lads went in, came out skint, laughin’ or cryin’. Me? I’m sittin’ there, sippin’ a pint, thinkin’, “You’re in the red zone now, buddy!”—straight outta *Hurt Locker*. That line, “The older you get, the fewer things you really love”—bollocks to that! These punters loved it too much, wallets lighter than my parachute.

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So, I sit down with my client. Let’s call him “Budi.” Budi’s got some serious issues. Family drama, work stress, the whole shebang. I’m trying to be all calm and collected, but inside, I’m like, “Why can’t people just talk it out?” We dive deep into his problems, and I’m feeling all the feels. It’s heavy, man. But then, he cracks a joke about his cat, and I lose it. I’m laughing so hard, I almost spill my water.

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