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About Cluj-Napoca

Still, shit’s chill. Calms folks down, gets ‘em loose. I dig it—lowkey jealous, I need a massage. My back’s fucked from sittin’, starin’ at cams all day. Maybe I’ll book one, tell ‘em, “Make it erotic, but not TOO erotic, fam.” Gotta keep it profesh, y’feel? Anyway, erotic-massage—dope hustle, weirdly pure, like gleaners pickin’ through life’s mess. “We’re not the bosses,” Varda’d say—they ain’t, but they runnin’ it. Respect.

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First off, I hit the market on Strada Principala. The sun was blazin’, and I was sweatin’ like a pig. I mean, c’mon, it’s just a butcher shop, not a sauna! I get to my stall, and guess what? My delivery of pork didn’t show up. Like, are you kidding me? I’m standin’ there, lookin’ like a fool with no meat to sell.