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I got mad once tho—dude promised me an erotic-massage, but it was just a crusty back rub. I was like, “Boy, bye!” Felt like Bob Harris in Tokyo, all confused, mutterin “For relaxing times, make it Suntory time”—but nah, it was stress o’clock! Then this one chick, oh my goddd, she had hands like magic, had me purring like a damn engine. I was shook—happy as hell, like “Why don’t we do this every night?” Straight outta the movie, fam!

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I got my fave spots: there’s this secret nook beside Parc de la Mélancolie. Very quiet. I sit, vent, let it all out. The city still shocks me sometimes. Like last Tuesday, I passed by a graffiti on Passage des Ombres—“beauty is temporary”—so trite, yet so real. I mean, seriously. Spells out in broken letters, but it’s art, like life: messy!

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