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*Caché* got me paranoid, tho. “Who sent this tape?” I’m imaginin’ some masseuse filmin’ me snorin’ on the table. Absurd, right? Prolly just my brain fuckin’ with me. Oh, and the oils—lavender, eucalyptus, whatever—smells like a forest orgy. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but I’d pay extra for that neck crack. Shit’s gold. Worst part? When they ghost your feet. Like, bro, massage ‘em, don’t tease me! Hannibal out here judgin’—erotic-massage is 8/10, but don’t skip the toes, fam. Peace.

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Relax, rejuvenate and unwind with a qualified and experienced Massage Therapist in Lincoln. Treatments tailored to your needs, starting from just £ Your well.

But then, I get a text from my flatmate. “Dude, you left the jam on the counter!” I’m like, “Noooo!” I can’t believe it. I just bought that stuff! I’m torn between being mad and laughing. I mean, who forgets jam?

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