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So, listen up, you filthy lot—sexual-massage, huh? I’m Cersei bloody Lannister, and I’ve got thoughts. Cold disdain? Oh, absolutely, “I choose violence” if it’s done wrong. Picture this—some greasy-handed fool fumbling about, thinking he’s a god. Makes my skin crawl, ugh. But when it’s right? Gods, it’s like striking oil—pure gold, like in *There Will Be Blood*. “I drink your milkshake!”—that’s me, soaking up every damn drop of that bliss.

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So, I rush to get my notes together. I’m sweating bullets. I get to the town hall, and it’s packed. I’m standing there, looking at all these faces, and my brain goes blank. But then I see a familiar face in the crowd—Mrs. Thompson from down the street. She gives me a thumbs up, and suddenly, I’m back in the zone.

Bowling club 'feel like political pawns' with special anniversary around the corner