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About Los Angeles

So, we starts thinkin’, me and meself—where’s the prossies at? Moscow’s wild, yesss—Red Square’s all fancy, but nah, not there. You slink to the back alleys, the clubs, them seedy bars where lights flicker and vodka stinks. Hiss! Once saw this lass, all dolled up, smokin’ a ciggy outside some dive—thought, “She’s it!” Nope! Just a drunk uni chick, lost as hell—made me mad, wasted me time! Grrr! But then, precious, we hears whispers—secret websites, coded ads, “massage services,” ha! Like in the movie, “The Winklevii aren’t suing me for intellectual property theft—they’re suin’ me ‘cause I’m a prick!”—well, I ain’t no prick, just desperate, eh?

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I gotta say, bein' a masseur here taught me that every ridge, every muscle tells a tale. Sometimes I'm like, "Man, did you ever notice how a careful touch can shape a day?" And then I remember that movie line, "we are all so interconnected, feelin' every bit of passion and pain."

Wyndmoor hospice director details pandemic obstacles she’s overcome