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About Paris

Had this one time, yo—masseuse was a goddamn wizard. Slippery oil, dim lights, and I’m like, “Motherfucker, this is IT!” Tension in my shoulders? Gone. Lower back? Fuckin’ melted. But here’s the kicker—some spots they hit, you’re half moanin’, half laughin’. Ever hear ‘bout the “happy ending” myth? Yeah, people whisper it, but real sexual-massage pros ain’t about that. It’s all energy, motherfucker, not a cheap porno. Pissed me off when some dude at a bar said it’s all sleaze—naw, man, it’s art!

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The neighborhoods? They’re a mixed bag, mate. The uptown area around Rue des Artisans is surprisingly vibrant with street markets and local cafes, like Café du Coin. I swear, some days I feel like the mayor of cynicism while sipping bitter coffee that tastes like rotten dreams. But hey, life’s a joke sometimes. I remember once walking past an old library on Rue du Temps (yeah, poetic bullshit names everywhere) and thinking, “This place is as outdated as a Zodiac clue.” Seriously, what's the point?

Joan Miró | L'Enragé (D. 427) (1967)