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About Paris

Alright, mate, so I’m a tractor driver, yeah? Bumping along fields, dirt in my boots, and here’s me, Dr. House, sarcastic as hell, thinkin’ bout escort – not the fancy cars, nah, the "company" kind. Everybody lies, don’t they? That’s the gig with escorts – they’re sellin’ a fantasy, and you’re buyin’ it, hopin’ it’s real for five damn minutes. Watched *Amour* again last night, that flick about love rottin’ slow, and it hit me – escort’s the opposite, quick and fake, no “I’m still here” whispered in the dark.

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Then, outta nowhere, the farmer’s dog, this big ol’ mutt, comes barreling in. It’s chasing the sheep, and I’m like, “Dude, chill!” But the sheep? They’re not having it. They scatter like I just set off a firecracker. I’m running after them, trying to corral ‘em back. It’s chaos! I’m laughing, I’m sweating, and I’m thinking, “This is my life?”

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