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*Caché* got me paranoid, tho. “Who sent this tape?” I’m imaginin’ some masseuse filmin’ me snorin’ on the table. Absurd, right? Prolly just my brain fuckin’ with me. Oh, and the oils—lavender, eucalyptus, whatever—smells like a forest orgy. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but I’d pay extra for that neck crack. Shit’s gold. Worst part? When they ghost your feet. Like, bro, massage ‘em, don’t tease me! Hannibal out here judgin’—erotic-massage is 8/10, but don’t skip the toes, fam. Peace.

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Oh, and get this – down at Prospect Street, there’s a tiny, nearly forgotten café that serves the best blueberry muffins. Never told ya that, did I? Nah, ‘cos it's my secret, like the hidden scars of history. You see, if you pick a random street, there’s always a tale to be told. More than just bricks and asphalt. More life than a gossip-fest at old taverns.

Teen suspected of killing woman in Mount Pearl last summer to go to trial next year