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Humor? Oh, motherfucker, imagine this: you’re lyin’ there, buck naked, and the masseuse whispers, “Relax, big guy.” I’m like, “Bitch, I’m Samuel L. Jackson, I don’t relax!” But then—fuck!—you do. It’s like your soul gets a hard-on. Sarcasm aside, it’s dope—beats a regular massage by a mile. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but who gives a shit? Feels like you’re floatin’ in some Thai jungle, past lives fuckin’ with your head.

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After that, I needed a drink. Hit up a bar on Rue des Vagues. Ordered a rum and coke. I deserved it, right? I sat there, soaking wet, laughing with the locals. They were telling stories about the craziest fish they’ve seen. One guy said he caught a fish that looked like a potato. I was like, “Dude, that’s just a rock!”

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