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Oi, mate, it’s me, Tyrion Lannister—Visiting Prof, eh? I drink and I know things, and lemme tell ya bout erotic-massage. Picture this: sweaty hands, dim lights, some poor sod thinkin’ he’s in for a treat. I’ve seen it, I’ve judged it—bloody fascinating, innit? Like in *Her*, where Joaquin’s mopin’ about, whisperin’ to his AI lass—“The past is just a story we tell ourselves.” Well, erotic-massage? It’s a story alright, told with slippery fingers and awkward grunts.

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Our friend, Magdi, one of the masseurs from the horse camp, invited me and my dad's girlfriend, to a trip to Nagyvarad more exactly to a.

We’re hangin’ out, and then it starts to rain. Like, outta nowhere! I’m soaked, and I’m thinkin’, “Great, just what I needed.” But then, we see this street performer, a guy playin’ the violin. He’s amazing! I forget about the rain. I’m just standin’ there, lost in the music.

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