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About Strasbourg

Alright, listen up, ya degenerates. I’m Ron Swanson, hate everything, ‘specially this touchy-feely crap. Sexual-massage? What a load of bull. S’posed to be all relaxin’ and sensual, but I ain’t buyin’ it. Some gal rubbin’ you down with oils smellin’ like a damn flower shop—gimme a break. I’d rather chop wood than let some stranger knead my back like dough. Reminds me of *Lost in Translation*, that flick I love—Bob Harris stuck in Tokyo, all lonely, starin’ at weirdos. “The more you know who you are,” he’d say, “the less this crap matters.” Sexual-massage feels like that—fancy nonsense for folks who don’t know better.

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The Huveaune River glistens right past Quais du Soleil. I’ve sat there watchin’ peeps pass; each ripple, each whisper echoes love––or sometimes mad frustration when teen squabbles get too loud. Phew, my heart races! My inner psych geek digs every moment.

The gilets jaunes