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Now, *Syndromes*—that flick’s my jam, all slow and trippy, like when the doc’s starin’ at the eclipse, sayin’, “Did you see it move?” That’s erotic-massage, man—it creeps up, hits ya slow, then BAM, you’re hooked. Ain’t just rubbin’—it’s power, control, givin’ in to what ya crave. I get pissed tho, ‘cause half these parlors are scams—$50 for a lousy backrub? Screw that, I want the real deal, the full-body, leave-ya-shakin’ kinda gig. Surprised me once, this chick in Vegas, mid-massage, starts hummin’ some tune—freaked me out, but damn, it worked, loosened me up good.

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Downtown Bothell’s like, this hidden gem, a vibe like “I don’t wanna survive, I wanna live!” You feel me? Cascade Park? That spot is rad—a chill zone for a stroll, or for me, a moment to get lost in my thoughts. I stroll there, and memories hit hard like a Kanye sample. The air is crammed with laughs and secrets, and there’s always some quirky pop-up art that’ll make you go, “damn, what a sight!”

Augostino Rossi Obituary - Bothell, WA