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About Mogilev

Here’s a kicker—Victorians, prudes, right? Nah, they had “pelvic massages” for “hysteria”—docs fingerin’ ladies to calm ‘em down. Hilarious, fuckin’ wild, and true! Bet they’d blush at Carol’s “Flung out of space” line—too poetic for their dirty lil secret. Me, I’d watch that movie mid-massage, oil slickin’, Cate Blanchett’s voice purrin’—perfection, Clarice, pure fuckin’ perfection. What surprised me? How some masseuses sneak a wink—unspoken deal, “Want more?” Naw, I’m good, just keep it legit, ya perv.

I gotta mention the little-known spot by Crescent Hall. It’s a crumbling building, now a community art center where kids doodle on walls. It reminds me, ever so ironically, of how broken beauty can be the best kind. Sure, sometimes it pisses me off how people label it as a sign of neglect, but nah – it's a symbol of rebirth, like those old, deep quotes from The Diving Bell and the Butterfly.