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About Rio de Janeiro

Alright, listen up. Sexual-massage. I hate everything. Some oily hands rubbin’ ya down—sounds like a damn trap. Like in *Oldboy*, “Laugh and the world laughs with you.” But ain’t nobody laughin’ when you’re slippery as a fish. Paid a gal once—tiny shop, shady neon sign buzzin’. She’s kneadin’ me like dough, I’m thinkin’, “This is bullshit.” Tension’s supposed to melt, right? Nope. Felt like a wrestling match—her vs. my knotted-up back. Little known fact: Ancient Greeks did this crap too. Called it “massage with benefits.” Horny bastards.

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The city's got parks, man—like Parque das Águas. I spend lazy afternoons callin’ it home. It’s near Rio Vermelho, the river that cuts through like a scar on its face, somewhat rough but poetic. Sometimes, I feel like the water’s reciting lines from that movie too: "No more silence… no more." I'm not even kidding.

Organic cacao changes lives of settlers in southern Bahia