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So, picture this: dimly lit room, some chick’s kneading my back. Slow, deliberate, like she’s sculpting me. I’m thinking, shit, this beats factory fumes. Little known fact—ancient Greeks did this, called it “anatripsis.” Rich bastards got rubbed down after wrestling. Bet they popped boners too, haha. Makes me happy, this history—old-school perv vibes. But modern spas? Overpriced bullshit. Fifty quid for a tease? Pisses me off. “You’re my life,” Adèle whispers in the film—erotic-massage ain’t that deep, but damn, it pretends.

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So, I’m strummin’ a few chords on Via di Acilia, just chillin’, when this dude walks by. He’s got a dog that looks like it just escaped from a cartoon. I mean, seriously, it was all over the place! I’m tryin’ to focus on my music, but this pup’s doin’ backflips. I laugh, and the guy gives me a weird look. Like, bro, lighten up!

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