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I reckon it’s excitin tho—swappin flirty texts, feelin that rush when someone hot slides in ya DMs. Reminds me of Malik whisperin, “I’m not afraid of you,” all bold-like, takin control. That’s sex-datin at its best—feelin alive, takin risks! But then, y’all, there’s them horror stories—met a gal once who said her Tinder date showed up with his momma! His MOMMA! I bout fell outta my chair laughin—how’s THAT workin for ya, huh? True story, swear on my grandma’s biscuits.

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So, we’re wandering around, and Kenji’s explaining all this history. I’m half-listening, half-daydreaming. I mean, the place is beautiful, but my brain’s like, “What’s for lunch?” Then, outta nowhere, it starts pouring. I’m talking monsoon-level rain. We dash for cover under this big tree, and I’m soaked. My hair’s a mess, and I’m like, “Great, just great.”

Endoscopic images of a false‐negative case of the endoscopic judgment...